X & Y
by blue269
Summary: It is fate weaving its way through the life of two girls. One thing led to another, and not the way you think.
1. Chapter 1

I am Santana Lopez. I know you got burnt by just how hot my name sounds, and I'm not even sorry. Well, no, I'm not as full of myself as how people would normally see me. I'm just honest, and I don't deny facts. I know I'm hot, which may translate to self-absorption to some, and confidence to others. I really can't care less either way.

I have present matters to deal with. It's kind of a tough job.

Three of my exes are fighting in front of me right now. I was watching them impatiently, finding my nails more amusing than their entertaining factor altogether. I have seen this scenario one too many times.

I like girls, and, yeah, you can infer they like me back.

"Nobody deserves Santana as much as I do!" Victoria screams to no one in particular, maybe to herself. If she actually deserved me, all of us four wouldn't be performing a shit-ass 'Santana is Mine' show. I think I have an idea of who deserves me. It's not her. I am a very distinct person.

Victoria has piercing green eyes. It's what attracted me the most. Her hair is brown and is in fringe, framing her face perfectly. I won't take away that from her. I can still see how attractive she is even after we're already over, but – of course there's a '_but' _– it's only physically. She's no longer attractive to me on a deeper personal note. Victoria is filthy rich. I mean it. When we we're still together, she would always take me out on fancy restaurants. She brings me to shopping prior to date night so I could meet the standards of the venue. Every night, every car we ride on is different from the last one. She even has a driver. I don't know how she or her family accomplished to claim that much wealth, but I believe I didn't want to know. Victoria and I lasted for two months only. It was okay at first, at the testing-the-waters-let's-be-casual stage. She was actually funny, if she wouldn't restrict herself so much. But when that point was over, and after three times of having sex with her, I knew something wasn't right. I noticed she only talks to me two hours before date night, and doesn't bother to check in on me on normal, plain hours. She would easily get mad if I stuck with my choice even if she didn't approve of it. I'm talking about the dresses she buys for me, and, logically, would be worn by me _and _myself only. I don't get her. She seethes when she disapproves of my own choices, and I chose to still go with them. I thought it was an issue of control. Apparently, it was an issue of shaping me into someone her dad would approve of. She's completely gay, but that doesn't change the standards of her imposing father. I was shocked when I knew, because Victoria saw me as someone she could be with for a long time, up to the point I needed to meet her dad. The only thing she didn't see, however, is that money won't keep me around. It's definitely not the thing I look in for a potential mate. So, no, she doesn't deserve me.

"Bitch, you wish. I knew Santana first, so she's _mine_," Yvette insists just as forcefully. She's kind of fierce.

Yvette has pink hair in pixie cut. She has piercings, and a banging body. I thought we were just fucking around, literally and figuratively, until she shows up at my door fighting for her place in my life. I didn't know she likes me like _that _but the only thing is – I don't reciprocate her sentiments. She doesn't fail on insisting, though. She has all the chances for being my fuck buddy and casual _friend_, but just not with being her girl.

And then there's Ashton, standing indifferently, though invested in the argument for most parts. I have no idea how she wound up in this shindig with my two exes, but she has.

Out of them three, Ashton is the one I'm actually fond of. I may even have had _real _feelings for this girl. Her own feelings may have ended up being ambiguous, however. And there lies my resistance towards her. She's blonde, she's quirky, she's pretty, she's kind – she's everything I'm not. And you know what I am? – a lesbian. When things between us were starting to get serious, she became distant. When I asked her why, it turns out she wasn't sure of her sexuality. I don't think I want to deal with closet girls, I've been through that myself. I wasn't too into her that I would expose myself and readily wait for her. It's her baggage, not mine.

No.

No to all of them.

I raise my two hands in surrender. "None of you owns me. End of discussion. Let's call this a day."

"Santana," they whine in unison, even Ashton. They sounded needy and reprimanding – so annoying.

I raise a brow in exhaustion.

"Just, give me another chance. Baby, please," Victoria pleads.

"Let me take you out, Lo," Yvette says, "I swear we'll be happy."

"I just want to talk," Ashton, always with marginal indifference, shrugs.

I shake my head in exasperation. "I get it we all got history with each other. Maybe it was fun, maybe it was not. The reason why three lovely girls fighting over me is beyond me, and I meant that genuinely. I _really, _really hope you'll get over me, or us, as soon as possible. Because I am definitely over you guys."

My three exes were looking at one another tentatively. Yvette clicked her tongue whilst scratching her head. Ashton was just staring at her feet awkwardly. Victoria just mumbles a 'there's another day' and the three of them took that as a signal to go.

"Bye, Santana," I heard them mutter collectively and dejectedly.

I wanted to laugh at my situation, but I didn't have the energy to do so. I closed my apartment door, stripped down my clothes, and readily flopped down to my comfy, comfy bed.

* * *

It's my wedding day. It's the day my womanhood will be validated. It's the event that would change 'Pierce' to 'Evans.' It's the afternoon of Sunday when my life will be completely turned around. I am getting married to one Samuel Evans.

Of course I don't have doubts about him. I was supposed to be sure about him – and I am. He proposed to me on an ice cream store that's kind of our place, and in that moment, I knew I was sure of him. Sam gets me. He never looked down on me because I see things little differently, which I get a lot. We're in the same wavelengths, even in the same face mold. Believe me, it's been countless since we've been asked if we're siblings. I take it as a compliment, though. I've been told that the more you look akin to your partner, the higher are the chances that you're meant to be. It's like you're both from the same roots, and were set to found your way to one another. I'd like to believe that.

Sam's funny, he's good-looking, and he gets me. It's all that I could ask for. I'm lucky to have met him, and to be married to him.

So now, here am I, sat on a white Limo, almost reaching the church where my groom is waiting for me. And the rest of the people our parents invited.

However Sam and I insisted for the wedding to be simple and intimate, both of our parents persisted it ought to be grand _and _special. My mother even said she'll give me the wedding she's always dreamed of. That apparently consists of an intricate wedding gown, a limo, so many people, and other stuff I didn't dwell on too much. Furthermore, they never let us worry of this occasion's finances, saying this is a once-in-a-lifetime event. It's like their sort of gift, they said. Ultimately, I only cared about marrying Sam, and the rest is just details.

On my way, I thought about how everything Sam and I led to this. We were best friends, until he fell for me. He's the first person I confided about being attracted to both boys and girls. He just shrugged, as though I just revealed to him that the sky is blue. He said that it doesn't matter who I'm attracted to, as long as he or she would treat me right. He accepted and respected my preference, and I am so grateful for that. Eventually, he asked me out. Despite being scared of dating ruining our awesome, _awesome_ friendship, I gave Sam a chance. I'm scared nobody would ever get me like he does. Date after date, we become official and stuff. We may not be the type of couple who says 'I love you' every waking day, but I believe we have our own ways and it is obviously implied.

I can't wait to say 'I do.'

The vehicle halted, and it was time. I looked down to my very beautiful Stephanotis bouquet, and smiled. This is it.

The car door didn't immediately open, but the driver was there standing. He was wearing a slick tux that even with his disastrous Mohawk, he didn't look out of place. He looked down on the rolled down window, smiling, and extended a manila envelope to me.

I took it, though baffled.

I opened it cautiously, wondering why there's an urgency of an ambiguous envelope before my wedding. I thought, can't it wait after? I carried on anyway, thinking it is part of the dream wedding my mom always wanted.

But it's not.

My mom would never dream of this, most especially for her daughter.

There in the envelope lie several pictures of Sam in a club, groping another chick's ass, and obviously enjoying it. It was of different angles, and I know there were other worse things after it. I don't need to see no more.

At first there was confusion, because why the fuck do I have to see this just literally minutes before my wedding day? And then I realized I was mad, because I was cursing inside my head. I was so, _so _mad. Sam cheated on me! I only had good things about him, and then I see _this_? I am enraged. What I thought would have been the perfect day turns out to be the complete opposite.

I stormed out of the limo, forgetting to greet my father expecting for me. I also ignored him when he said 'Honey, what's wrong?' Everything is wrong, and a day is not enough to answer that question.

I practically rushed towards Sam, unknowing that our parents were trailing behind me. It's not very easy to run when you're wearing a heavy gown and your vision was clouded by a veil. Or maybe it was tears that were clouding my vision. I'm not even sure anymore, and I don't know if I care either way.

Sam was looking at me with loving and confused eyes. He definitely didn't expect his bride to be looking like I do right now.

"Britt, is everything okay?" He asks with concern, juggling his surroundings at once, trying to get the gist of it.

"No," I seethed.

"Sweetheart, what happened? What are you holding?" That was my mom – or maybe Sam's. I don't even know.

"Brittany, calm down." Now that's my mom, who is calling me by my full name.

The next thing I know, I was throwing my bouquet at the wrong time. I shoved the envelope to Sam's chest, and my hand was flying to slap his cheek.

The sound it made was so loud it wakened me from my angered state. I looked around, and everyone was astounded. I can't blame them – I am, too.

"Britt, I'm sorry," Sam starts as he regains enough consciousness. "I can explain."

But I'm not hearing it.

So I ran. I collected the pooling parts of my gown from the red carpeted floor, and ran as fast as my heels and my situation allowed me to.

I ran away with the screaming question of _why does this need to happen to me _in my mind.


	2. Chapter 2

I put on my leather jacket, while simultaneously checking myself out in the mirror. Hot damn, I internally applauded myself. I'm going to go out tonight. Just drink away the stress that takes form in my three exes. And if I'm lucky, I might get laid as well. Not that it's my priority, but it would be nice.

I sped off with my black Lexus, determined to make this day less shitty.

I arrived at the club, and the buzz was already starting to hype up. I, always in need for alcohol, proceeded to the bar immediately. I purposefully ignored the leering guys and girls because we all need an alone time before we deal with everything else, don't we? I motioned for the bartender, Joe, and ordered myself a Martini.

I was enjoying my drink, and was actually eying one chick from the dance floor when a commotion at my side ruined my immodest looking.

"Aw, baby, look at you. You look so lost and devastated," a guy says in unmistakably mocking voice. "I can cheer you up if you'd let me. In bed," he adds maliciously.

"Don't touch me," a girl retorts, probably the lost and devastated one (I can tell from her rejected tone).

"C'mon, babe, you deserve so much more than your groom. Come with us and we'll make it all better." Another man said, obviously not meaning what he's saying.

I know those voices. And they probably know mine, too.

"Get away from me," the girl speaks again, more firmly this time. "I don't need anyone."

The two guys just laughed.

"Feisty."

"Try harder. You're almost turning me on."

"Just fuck yourselves somewhere else," the girl mumbles resignedly.

I decided it was time to help the girl out. She sounded so sad. She didn't need these two douches bothering her.

"Rick. Azimio," I say in a low voice, and nod at them.

They were looking back and forth at me and the girl, and thought better. They chose to walk away.

The two guys nod back in acknowledgement at my direction.

"Yo, babe, sorry 'bout what happened to you," Azimio speaks up, and he actually sounded genuinely sorry. "We were just fishing for fun."

"He's a jerk," Rick supplements in.

And they were gone.

It's then that I saw her. My first thought was the same of Azimio's latest: I was genuinely sorry. I didn't know runaway brides still existed. She looked like a ruined piece of art. What I suppose was her perfect blonde hair earlier was now a mess. Her elegant wedding gown was now tattered and torn. Her other shoe was missing. Her makeup was distraught, and everything about her was destroyed, broken. But behind all these, I couldn't help but think she's beautiful. I see it. I just knew. Despite her mascara-stained eyes and her overall messed up persona, I can feel she is beautiful.

She is a ruined piece of art. But still an art, nonetheless.

I sat at the stool next to her, but didn't say anything. I mouthed 'water' to Joe.

"Thank you," the girl slurs, "For saving me from further assholes."

"It's nothing," I assured her.

"You know how you're so sure of your life, and then one thing fully changes that? Some extraterrestrial being bestowed power upon a speck of dust to _completely _spoil my pristine, _pristine _life."

I pushed the cup of water closer to her and shrugged.

"I was so mad earlier. I still am. But above all, I am sad. I'm so sad for myself, for my parents, for my supposedly-groom, and for everyone." She drowns the cup of water. "Have you ever felt so sad you just wanted to cry and curl up on your bed sheets?"

"No, I haven't," I offered her a tight-lipped smile. "But have you eaten yet?"

"Aren't you supposed to be the make-it-all-better character in my life? You're supposed to be consoling me, offering me pieces of relationshit advice, letting me cry on your shoulder and whatnot – not babysitting me."

I smiled mischievously at her. I am that make-it-all-better character in her life. But not just yet. I want her largely, if not fully, aware (or sober) when we take revenge on the person who did this to her, who hurt her. An art as wondrous as her shouldn't be trashed so easily – or ever, for that matter. I don't know where the surge of protectiveness over her came within me, but I knew I don't want her _this _sad.

"If it's any consolation, you can cry on my shoulder," I say. "So have you eaten yet?"

She doesn't answer me right away, though she did cry on my shoulder. I tensed at first when she laid her head on my shoulder, but I just let her. She started crying with silent tears and then it progressed to a heavy-with-fits-of-sobs-and-cursing-she's-hysterical-you-got-me-worried type of crying. I just let her all the while. I even put my arm around her, rubbed the side of her arm, and made cooing noises. I told her it'll soon be over. I don't know how soon, but I do know that everything, good and bad, gets over.

I asked Joe for another cup of water, which he quickly gave me. I made a mental note to tip him a little extra the next time I go here because he wasn't minding me and the stranger I was comforting.

When the girl finally calmed down, I offered the cup of water to her for the second time. She took it gratefully and drank it in one swig. She really looked like she needed it.

"I'm such a mess," she mutters coyly, wiping her nose and face with the back of her hand. She was wearing the slightest hint of a smile, and I could swear right there that she's way prettier when she smiles. I hate that prick who took away that beautiful, _beautiful _smile away from her.

"You are," I say in agreement.

Her slight smile turned to a full one, "Thank you. And no, I haven't eaten yet."

"I figured. Let's go."

She looks around, clueless, "Where? I'm sure you've also figured out I'm not close to a club-hopping-dance-floor-exploring mood right now?"

I had to chuckle at that. She's cute. "Restroom first, to salvage whatever we can from you, and then I'll get you fed."

"I like the sound of your plan, but _what for_?"

"To make a clear insinuation of what you deserve."

She smiles at me, a brighter one this time, and off to the restrooms we go.

* * *

I was standing at the girls' restroom with arms crossed, waiting for the runaway bride. I offered I'd go help her, but she insisted she could fix herself alone. I didn't argue, thinking that despite me being so nice to her, we're still basically strangers. I don't even know her name.

"I've never seen you smile that much, Lopez," Rick comments as he walked past by me. I just had to punch him on the arm for that.

"Someone's getting hitched," Azimio sing-songs, supporting Rick the Stick's cause.

I gave them a death glare. Their retreating figures of high-fiving each other annoyed me all the more. Pricks.

I was about to go check on my blonde friend/acquaintance/nobody when she walked out of the restrooms. Man, she salvaged herself bad. I can now clearly see her face, and those legs, too. She looks like a fairy of some sort. I could even see jots of light around her. So attractive.

She obviously washed her face, seeing as the remnants of crying and mascara around her eyes were now gone, and she is now makeup-less. Her hair was also neatly tied up to a bun atop her head. I don't know how she did it, but her once long gown was now cut up to her mid-thighs, making it look like she's wearing a cocktail dress.

"Impressive," I say when she comes up to me.

"You speak as if you haven't seen my ugly state earlier."

"Not ugly," I tell her. I just realized I sounded like a caveman there. "You weren't ugly earlier."

"Ha, yeah, 'cause I was horrible," she counters with a sarcastic smile.

"Hmm, yeah," I reply just as sarcastically. "Let's go."

Now I don't know why she's doing it, but she's holding my hand when we walked out of the club. She just grabbed my hand, and linked our fingers – like it's the most nonchalant thing between strangers. When I looked down at our intertwined hands, she just gave it a light squeeze. And just like earlier, I let her.

Maybe she needs the physical assurance and comfort from another person, or she just finds me super hot she doesn't want to share me with anybody so she clings to me (though this reason is very unrealistic), but whatever her reason was, I didn't mind holding her hand.

* * *

So I drove us away from the club, and I even lent her a pair of flip flops because her shoe was missing. We ended up sitting on a stoop, munching on burritos. It's the most practical choice I could think of when I think of getting back at the person who ruined her bride. I want the revenge as soon as possible – and if there's one thing Santana Lopez is good at, it's revenge.

"Why are you so nice to me?" My companion asked after minutes of silence.

I don't even know, I thought to myself. Even if I do, it would come off sappy and inappropriate for a person you just met. 'Because you're too beautiful to be hurt by an ass or by anyone,' you don't say that to someone on a regular basis, no? Instead, I settle for a plain answer. "It looked like you needed nice," I say.

She stares at me, and I noted how lovely her blue orbs and her eyes in general are. "Do you want to know how I ended up here?"

"I want to know your name," I blurted out.

The corner of her lips turned up, "Oh. I am Brittany Pierce, supposedly Evans. But that's irrelevant. I'm Brittany."

"So, Brittany, tell me how you ended up here."

It was evident she was still bitter while she was talking, but I really couldn't blame her. The occurrences were still so fresh. I wonder how she got to smile in such challenging times.

I learned that Sam, her ex-fiancé and ex-groom and the one we're going to kick ass later, has been his best friend first before her boyfriend. They naturally gotten along, though she says she'll never see him _that _good again after what he's done to her. I asked what made her runaway, and she said it was because she didn't know what to do except that she knows she's marrying the wrong person. She tells me she was given pictures of Sam cheating on her.

She said, "He could do it once, what could stop him to do it again?"

"You don't love him enough to give him a chance to explain?" I queried after swallowing a bite of burrito.

"I love him. I loved him. I don't know. He was clearly going to keep it a secret, hadn't I received that envelope. He was about to embark on the ship of unfaithfulness, and I was lucky I got warned. Cheating is cheating."

I raised my bottled water in the air and she clung her own against it. I don't know what we're cheering for, but we did.

"I guess the saddest part is that I just didn't lose one person. I lost him romantically, sure. But I'm sure as fuck we're not going to be friendly in the next ten years. He was my brother. He was my friend. And now he's not."

"I haven't told you this, but I'm really sorry you have to experience this."

"So am I. But you've been of so much help, and I can't thank you enough."

"It's nothing," I assured her again. "Are you sure you want to do this? You still have minutes to back out. We're going to _literally _kick his ass, and sabotage his life."

"Violence isn't really my language, but I could make an exception."

"Awesome," I smiled for the fourth time of that day.

* * *

The drive to Sam's apartment couldn't be any longer enough. I can feel the adrenaline starting to build up inside me. I can sense Brittany squirming on her seat but I can't tell whether it's excitement or nervousness.

"Brittany, you don't have to do anything. You can just watch or not at all."

"Bullshit. I want to afflict some pain as well. It would make me feel less sorry."

"Oh," I smirk, "It's more than 'feeling less sorry,' Britt, trust me. It's liberating."

"What, you're used to kicking people's ass?"

"That's one way to put it. And I've been in Judo classes since I was fifteen. For self-defense, my dad said. Little did he know I was going to be so abrasive and use it for self-offense."

She giggles, "That's cute."

I just had to look at her weirdly by then. That's supposed to be hot; not cute.

And since we're still far away, according to my GPS, Brittany and I were left with our own thoughts. The blonde had her forehead against the car window, while I had to fixate my attention on driving.

I thought about what's so special with her that I let her cry on my shoulder, hold my hand, buy her food, lend her my slippers, and let her sit in my baby. I wonder what's with her that makes me want to take care of her. She's attractive, I'll give you that. But I've seen attractive girls before, and none of them made me so _soft_. I admit I have a tough exterior, which loosens up through time, but with this girl? It didn't even go up from the first time we met up until now. Was it because I spotted her in a very vulnerable state? I see my three exes be vulnerable in front of me more often than not, but it doesn't affect me even by bit. I may have been satiated, but it still tells something.

I'm drawn into Brittany, and it's simple as that.

"I see his car," she says when we're nearly at Sam's apartment.

"Lesson number one: Control yourself," I glanced at her coolly. "I know you're furious like you're sentenced to play Flappy Bird for the rest of your life, but we have to measure our actions."

She grins at me like I'm her mentor or something.

"We walk up to his door, you knock, and you're the first thing he sees. If he's not banging a chick, I'll hit him square in the jaw." Brittany cringes at this idea. I turned off the ignition. "Lesson number two: It's not always about power; It's knowing where to hit. I'll make him weak, and you'll kick his balls for finishing touches. Got it?"'

"Yes, ma'am," she nods assertively.

"And his car, well, that's easy. We destroy it in numerous ways we could think about." I set my eyes on her, all hint of playfulness gone. "Brittany, this is the last time I'll ask: Are you sure you want to do this?"

"What's your name?"

"Santana," I say matter-of-factly.

"Yes, Santana, I am very sure," she answers in the same manner.

And we were out of the car.

We rode the elevator, up to the fifth floor. Brittany was leading the way because I obviously didn't know where the asshole lived.

"Santana," she calls out. I like the sound of it from her. "This is his door."

"Yeah?" I say, scanning her face.

"Yeah," she nods and she knocks.

It took less than a minute for the door to swing open.

To say Sam has a big mouth and was a mess would be an understatement. His hair was ruffled in the wrong places, and not in the boy-next-door kind of way. His bowtie was undone on his neck, hanging loosely. His eyes looked like he had been crying. That's good, I thought. He should be.

When he saw who was on the other side of the door, however, his face lightened up. Everything about him turned up. I could feel it. Brittany was indifferent, though.

"Brittany," he says in astonishment. "I knew you'd always come back. I love you so much, please forgive me. I can-"

I didn't let him finish his bullshit. I pinched his nose with my two fingers and twisted it forcefully. I think he didn't notice I was there. He wiggled his face to escape from my hold, but I was stronger. I had him.

"The hell is this?" Sam mustered to ask aloud.

"Wrong answer," I mutter and hit him on the face. He didn't have time to react, and all he could really do was greet my fist openly. I punched him once on the jaw, and another and another. I karate-chopped the part of the neck where I know it would hurt so bad. He cries in pain and got down to his feet. I kicked him once on the side, and twice to the other. He was a no fight, and I don't think he'd even try to. He knows he deserves this. That doesn't make him less of a prick, though.

I looked at Brittany, and she was expressionless. It was kind of scary.

"Do it, Brittany," I gave her the green light.

She did it readily. She kicked his ex-fiancé's balls with so much aggravation I thought he would lose the ability to produce sperm. I couldn't care less.

The whines of agony of Sam resonated in his own apartment. I'm sure that hurt.

Brittany looked at him dead in the eye. "We're over, do you hear me? You're a hypocrite. You threw away everything we had so easily. We're over."

Sam, with blood drooping from his nose and mouth, could only nod.

Just like her earlier, I grabbed Brittany's hand as if it's the most nonchalant thing to do. I led her out, and we ran the stairs.

"Feeling better?" I asked with a huge grin.

"Much," she says.

I let Brittany destroy Sam's car by her own, because I believe she needed that moment. I took out two baseball bats from my trunk, and gave one to her. Don't ask me why I'm always ready; I just am.

Sam's grey Prius went to alarm with Brittany's first hit and it was so noisy. She attacked the windows first. The glass shattered to shards and another wave of protectiveness hit me, thinking Brittany would get hurt. The reassured smile and giddy thumbs up she gave me, though, cleared all my doubts. So I instigated her to keep going, to lose herself. She did. She kept hitting angrily I thought her arms would fall off of her body. But, of course, she's stronger than she looks. She hit the doors, the side mirrors, and she looked like it wasn't a tough job.

I ran back to my car and took the tray of eggs and spray paint Brittany and I bought from a convenience store after finishing our burritos.

From where I stood, I threw eggs to Sam's car, happy to help. It landed on the hood. I was of course careful not to hit Brittany. I actually have a good aim. The runaway bride stopped hitting when she heard the 'plok' of the egg and smiled at me so goofily. She's like a child let loose on doing something she isn't supposed to be doing. I grinned straight at her just because she's infectious like that.

Brittany ran to my place, panting. She was flushed and her forehead was glistening with sweat. She exhaled a big 'hooh' when she reached me.

"Can I?" she asked, motioning for the eggs.

I nod.

She eagerly grabs an egg and throws it just perfectly. "That's for wasting everything we endured!" She grabs another, and throws again. "That's for making me feel stupid! I thought you loved me, but you were so easy to touch another girl. Fuck you, Sam! Fuck you!"

Needless to say, all of the eggs remaining were used up by Brittany. She may have started crying again, but just like earlier, I didn't mind.

I decided it was time to contribute my share to the Prius' dents and shards. I went over Sam's parking slot, hit the front, breaking the glass there. I left the bat, and opted for a knife. I slashed his tires – all of it.

"Brittany," I called over, as I was using the spray paint. "Your turn."

"Okay," she says, and paints her own artwork on Sam's car.

When she was done, she dropped the spray paint to the ground, emitting the clinking sound. She checks out our finished masterpiece, and she seemed satisfied. I am, too.

The once slick Prius is now ruined to bits. It is undistinguishable. The words 'dick' and 'cheater' were outstanding by its side. I would have applauded if Brittany hadn't grabbed my arm. It brought me back to reality.

"Run!" I screamed, all giggly.

And we did. We ran away to safety.

* * *

"I've never felt so deviant and liberated in my whole life," Brittany says once we're in the car and calmed down.

"I know what you mean," I offered a friendly smile. "Where to now?"

I was waiting for her answer, also focused on speeding off. She was taking long to respond and I thought she was mulling it over. When the traffic light turned red, I looked at her and saw she was in a sleeping state. She's fast asleep.

I was captured by the sight of her. My heart started to beat rapidly, and I wanted to touch her. I could look at her sleeping, at peace, for the rest of my life. She's _that _kind of art.

One more look, I swear, I'm a goner.

* * *

**A/N: **Alright, you guys, tell me what you think. Go or no? Also, hi!


	3. Chapter 3

Now, being a Lopez, especially _the_ Santana Lopez, I never thought I'd take home a girl and not do anything _with _her. As a matter of fact, I am doing something _for _her. Never in my imaginations had I thought I'd be this nice – making breakfast, consisted of pancakes and bacons. I've never doubted my decisions as I have now.

If my exes just wouldn't show up today, everything will be perfect.

* * *

My head was aching when I woke up, but I was easily comforted by the very plush bed I am situated on. I enjoyed honest three seconds of comfort the bed is offering me, though it dawned on me this is not how _embracing_ my own bed is. My eyes fluttered open, and was greeted by new surroundings. This is definitely _not _my room.

My vision adjusted to the light as I took my environ in. I momentarily wondered how I ended up here, but was so glad to be reminded about my knight and shining armor. I just had to smile by the thought of her. However, inevitably, I also realized what caused mine and Santana's paths to cross. My smile vanished quickly.

I focused my mind on what I suppose was Santana's room. She took me _in _her home.

Her bed is wide and low, and it sheets are the same color of her hair. The bed frame is wood, similar to the flooring, the color of dark mahogany. Her walls are pure white, with a lining of dark gray. There aren't many decorations that would tell me 'it's personal,' such as photos or plaques of recognition, except the stack of books at my right and the very organized desktop computer by the side. Everything is simple and minimalistic, completely opposite of Santana's personality – or at least what I've seen of it. The room was bare, but I could tell it was her room. How? Well, I just shamelessly sniffed her pillow, bringing it closer to me, and inhaling _her _scent – it was a rich scent, mixed with her shampoo and her sweet fragrance.

What? We all have to sniff someone's pillow once in a while! I had to be there!

I was still wearing the same horribly tattered, though, expertly torn wedding gown from yesterday. I must be stinking from all the sweating I did last night. I internally cursed at myself because I'm ruining Santana's immaculate abode. I stood up, my bun almost falling from my head.

She let me sleep on her bed. Where is she?

On the side of the bed were nearly folded clothes and a neon green sticky note atop it. It read: _Brittany, good morning! You can change and freshen up. Just come out when you're ready. I don't want to disturb you. You needed the rest. – S (Ps, the red toothbrush is mine. Yours is green. Okay?)_

I smiled genuinely for two reasons: 1) She's so damn thoughtful. I'm saying this not including last night's events, mind you. This gesture alone, lending clothes, buying me my _own _toothbrush, worrying about my well-being, or just caring about a practical stranger in general, is more than enough to prove how big Santana's heart is for the people in need. 2) 'Just come out when you're ready.' Was she insinuating something? It sounded so. Was she indirectly asking me if I like girls? If she was, it was a cute way of an attempt. And if she wasn't, well, I'd still find it funny. I really hope she was, though.

So I grabbed the prepared stuff for me, and went to the bathroom installed inside her room. It was of course just as organized like the rest of her personal space. It's almost as if this portion of her room wasn't used at all.

The only thing that went wrong about my morning is that I took a shower. And you know what happens in the shower? Life matters. The toughest decision to make, the deepest predicament to face, the dilemma of to be and not to be, and other situations that invokes self-reflection – it all happens in the shower. Reality slapped me like a bitch.

Once I was out of the haven Santana is providing me, I will come home to people who will feel endlessly sorry about what happened to me, as if I don't already. They will pity me, and I didn't need it a bit. I will be oriented, over and over again, about how something went wrong about Sam and I, how I didn't see it coming, or how stupid I was, collectively. It makes me want to not leave Santana's side. Yep, I trust her this much only after a day.

I obviously had a better mood coming into the bathroom, compared after exiting. I just wish Santana's magic of cheering me up hasn't gone astray yet. I see her as the make-it-all-better character in my life still.

* * *

When I gently shut the door behind me, I saw Santana lying on her couch, staring intently at her phone, though there's an opened book flat against her stomach. People who make reading a necessity turn me on. Not that it's relevant, but it was a fleeting thought.

However soft I made my movements, she still noticed me. She looked away from her device, and looked at me – or better yet, _through _me. Her eyes always seem to penetrate through me, the thing that made me trust her all the more.

I looked down at my appearance, wary and conscious of her stare. I was wearing a white cat-printed shirt and navy blue sweats. I also let my hair down, still damp from my shower. I was thinking I wore my shirt inside-out to make her look like _something _is up with me, but as far as I can tell, nothing is.

She sat up, gathering her book, and says, "Brittany, hi."

I shrugged off the self-consciousness feeling as I walked closer to her. She's wearing a loose black tank top, and sweats of the same color. Is black her favorite color?

I grin at her. Her skin looks so soft I wanted to touch her – and her dimples, too. But, of course, that would have been inappropriate. I said good morning and sat beside her.

"You woke up just in time. I made breakfast," she states.

"You did?" I was embarrassed I'm causing so much trouble for her. She must have work, and here am I, occupying her. "You really didn't have to. I don't know how to thank you anymore."

"Then don't," she tells me assertively. "I already told you it's nothing. I can't wait for my own _complicated _dish to fill my mouth," she adds sarcastically.

I had to chuckle at her. She's cute in the morning. No, actually, she's cute any time of any day.

So I followed her, and we're now sat on steel stools by the granite counters. Her kitchen, just like her room, has the similar color scheme of black, white, dark gray, and dark mahogany. I'm starting to infer she's well-off.

We were silently munching on pancakes and bacon, and Santana was on her second cup of coffee. She said she needed that beverage to live. I just smiled and raised my glass of orange juice at her.

"Are you feeling any better?" She asks me like she didn't want to do it. "I know it's such a dumb question, given the fact that you were supposed to be married yesterday, but I also thought it's a mandatory question. Dumb, but mandatory. Are you okay? You know what I mean?"

"I'm fine," I say with a mouthful of food. I swallowed. "I mean, physically I'm so much better. I'm not looking _distressed_ anymore. I'm well-rested and my head isn't aching as much, thanks to you. But if you meant emotionally and mentally, I know I'm not okay. Once I go back, I need to handle so much people with unwarranted attention – whether I like it or not. I don't."

"When they ask where have you been, tell them you've been to the most awesome cat-printing shirt house in the world."

"Yeah, it's pretty cool," my cheeks turned up. "Is it yours?"

"Yes," she nods. "Not that I _love _cats, and I don't, but that shirt was super alluring I knew I had to make the purchase. I just knew."

"But I have a cat," I pouted sadly. What's about cats she didn't like?

"Oh," her face fell, like she realized the universe is against her. "I don't like dogs, either?" She offers, "Or any animal, for that matter."

"Weird, but okay, I respect that." I say, "So enough about me. Tell me your story."

"I'm not a runaway bride," she replies instantly.

"I _know_," I shot her a playful glare. "Like, what do you do? You seem cozy."

She looks at me like she's disbelieving what I'm asking. I think she's thinking I'm asking for the sake of being polite. I frowned. I'm asking for the sake of asking, and because I genuinely wanted to know her.

Santana seems to understand my thoughts by my facial expression, so she answers. "I, um, _blog_."

"You get paid by blogging? That's so cool."

"It's really not," she mumbles.

"Why not? What do you blog about?"

She appears to think about it. "Entertaining stuff," she finally declares. And she was off to the land of spacing out. I didn't bother her, thinking it's only nine in the morning and everyone drifts off to somewhere when they can, like a human necessity.

She was quiet until we finished our meals. It didn't come off weird to me; I was indifferent. I'm internally practicing my speech when the time comes Santana and I have to part ways. I know it's almost coming.

I heard knocking by the door, but Santana doesn't. She was sipping coffee with a faraway look in her eyes. Considering it's the least I can do, I will answer the door for her. Santana didn't budge when I stepped off the stool and walked away.

I saw three girls raring to see the opposite side of the door, but they were shocked when they figured it wasn't Santana.

"Hi," I say tentatively to them.

"Brittany!" That's Santana. "Don't open the door!"

But I already did.

"Who are you and why are you in Santana's apartment?" The girl with pink hair and piercings asks me fiercely. I wasn't intimidated, though. I'm not doing anything wrong.

"Santana!" The girl with green eyes and fringe calls over me. "Is this your new play toy? Come out there and explain this to me," she demands angrily.

"You're blonde," the blonde girl says, as if stating the color of the sky. She is the calmest among them three, though her brain seems to be working ultra fast.

While I was about to speak and tell them I meant no harm to Santana, also to introduce myself, Santana was by my side, pulling me by the arm, back to the perimeters of her house. She closed her door shut.

"Fuck, this is so embarrassing," she mutters frantically. "I'm so sorry you had to meet them, Britt. They're not supposed to be part of our encounter."

I momentarily ignored how good 'fuck' sounds off her. "Santana, this is nothing compared to my embarrassment last night," I smiled kind-heartedly. "Who are they?"

She finally stops running her hand through her hair, and I thought I did something to calm her down. She laughs, "I may not be a runaway bride, but I have to keep running away from girls who can't get over me."

"Wow, so irresistible," I joked.

"I'll tell you the story later. I'll deal with them first," she smiles so prettily.

I sighed smiling, admiring her beauty. "Okay."

We were so lost in that moment we forgot her exes outside. We were brought back to present when the banging by the door got louder and 'is that your girlfriend' resonated over the wood.

"No!" Santana answers them back, clearly flushed. "She's not!"

"Then who is she?" The three girls responded in unison.

"I'll get the dishes," I say with a giggle.

* * *

When I was sure Brittany was out of ear shot, I cautiously opened my door to its narrowest, only enough that I could squeeze myself through.

I immediately raised my hands in defense, conveying I mean no trouble. "Calm down, everyone," I commanded silently, though certainly. "You're scaring her."

"We're not!" They whine together.

"You're scaring me," Ashton says.

I gave her a look.

"Santana," Victoria draws my attention. "Tell me who that girl is."

"What makes you think you have that control over me?" I asked her coolly, but thick annoyance was bubbling inside me. "I can hang out with whoever I want, and that shouldn't concern you – or anyone of you three, that is."

"But it does," Yvette speaks up, and the natural sharpness in her voice is absent. "It concerns me. Or us, I guess."

I sighed. "That's Brittany. She's not my girlfriend or whatever you think she may be. I met her last night, and she's my friend. That's all I'm letting you on because that's all there really is."

"She's wearing your favorite shirt," Ashton complains again. "I tried to borrow that shirt from you, and you know what happened? – We fought. 'Friend' my ass, Santana."

"You are _not_ serious," Victoria says gravely to Ashton.

That cat-printed shirt may be my favorite shirt among all my cool tees, and I was so easy to lend it to Brittany. But it has nothing to do with the fact I'm crushing on Brittany. None at all – I'm not even being sarcastic. Believe me. It's my least worn shirt because I don't want it overused or something, so that's what I lent to the runaway bride. I didn't tell Ashton any of this, of course.

"None of your business," I say. "Anyway, can you all guys leave now? You're all early today," I noted.

They were looking at me like something's wrong with me.

"What?" I asked them. "I got some errands to run."

Yvette scoffs, "Is that what cool kids name sex now? _Errands_?"

I grunt irately and pinched the bridge of my nose. "What would it take to have you guys leave at this exact moment?"

"Be mine."

"Come back."

"Talk to me."

I felt truly sorry for them, the second time I did on their course of winning me back. I think it's my responsibility to give them a piece _and _peace of mind.

"I promise we'll have a talk soon. Each one of us has a shit to deal with, and your shit with me shall be sorted out real soon. Okay? Just, please, _please _take a break from persuading me."

They were looking at me, then at one another, and made small nods and shakes of the heads.

"Yeah, okay," Ashton tells me. "But you promised."

"I like it when you beg," Yvette smirks. "Catch ya soon."

"I'm holding on to your words," Victoria says.

"Yes!" I clapped my hands, relieved. "Thank you for your cooperation. Bye," I tell them and immediately went back inside.

And unlike yesterday, I had the energy to laugh at my situation. I slept on my couch and shared a breakfast with someone. I totally have lots of energy to spare.

* * *

I saw Brittany sat by my couch, flicking the channels of the TV. Her leg was tucked under the other, and her arm was supporting her head. It looked so natural. I decided I liked having her around.

What I witnessed next, however, was _priceless_. Brittany's face lightened up when she came across Spongebob Squarepants. Everything about her became brighter when the sound of Spongebob's annoying laugh resonated in my apartment. It's almost like her wedding wasn't put off yesterday. I was amazed by how one mundane thing could emanate so much delight from the beautiful blonde.

I don't want her to stop from smiling. She could ask me to fuck off under my own roof, and my will won't even refuse. But she sensed my presence, so she had to look away from the TV.

"The Santana Fans Club conference is over?"

"Shh, they might hear you," I joked.

She giggles. "Well, can I join the club?"

"Nope."

"Oh, such is life. How come the best things in life are never free for us peasants?" She brings her hands close to her heart dramatically. "Why is my greatest endeavor denied by the endeavor itself? Luck has never been by my side, and I doubt if it ever will."

"Theatrical," I laughed, though I know there may be another underlying meaning behind those words. "What do you do?" I asked as I sat beside her, leaving liberty for personal space.

"I read," she says like she's proud. Maybe she is.

I was incredulous. "No way. You read for a living? That's like getting paid for breathing!"

"I know," she gushes. "My family owns a bookshop, like a vintage one. Tourists usually go there because it's considered scenic, though non-tourists still visit on a daily basis. Anyway, when you publish books, you have to make sure they don't commit the simplest of errors. So I read."

"That's so cool. You get to smell books, _classic _ones for that matter, and you read to live. Look up, little lass." I sounded encouraging and I didn't know why.

We continued to talk about our lives outside last night's tire-slashing and supposedly-groom-but-he's-a-cheater-beating happenstance. I learned Brittany was fond of ducks, fondues, and dancing. And the most interesting fact she opened up about is that she's into girls as well. I tried to contain the excitement in me when I heard that, and hoped I succeeded. I was about to tell her the story of my exes, but I checked the clock and saw it was already 11. I planned on driving her back to her family before lunch because they must be _so _worried about their daughter. I also had a sudden matter to face – and, no, they don't involve my exes.

I felt awkward asking her if she wanted to leave already since it may sound sad and like I didn't want her around, unwelcome. Brittany looked at me as if she's forgotten she has a family to explain to. I offered a consoling a smile. She grunts, runs her hand through her golden locks, and says yes.

When I stood up, so did she. She turns off the TV and looked at me tenderly. Her blue orbs were twinkling with what I suppose was gratitude. She takes a step closer and my heart started to take pace.

And then she embraces me.

I've never felt warmer.

"Thank you so much," I heard her say.

I hugged her back, knowing that she's still going to conquer moving on and whatnot. I'm just glad I got to help on taking her anger out on the right person.

"I might have gone schizophrenic if you haven't arrived last night, you know?" She tells me lightly when we parted. "I've been thinking of creative ways to thank you, such as the universe receiving the correct galactic message from Lord Tubbington because I believe he knows when I'm in need, or the time coordinating correctly because I secretly had a father timekeeper who knows when my most unfortunate incident will happen – but it's a struggle to figure out which among all my ideas would suffice to encompass how much you've helped me."

I smiled at her earnestly because she's a proof to not second-guess my decision.

"Nothing is going to sum up the gratefulness I feel towards you, Santana, because it's all too much. I think the best way to put it is this: If ever you're going to come across times of trouble, I am going to be there and get you out of it, no matter what."

"You're welcome, Brittany. You really, _really _are. You deserve to be happy."

In the span of a night and a morning, I just_ knew _a person like her deserves happiness.

So I drove her home with the thought I actually have the tendency to care for someone at first look.

I guess she's an art I never want to be misplaced, mistaken care of, and misunderstood.

* * *

I pulled over by the side of the road. I was sat in my car alone, remnants of a tall blonde still occupying my mind. I can't seem to shake off how reluctant she appeared when we arrived at our last destination for the day together. I can't help but to associate her expressed emotion to the idea she liked the company of me rather than she's dreading to face her pitying family members.

I rerun the scenarios in the morning in my head: like how divine she looked when she walked out of my room, how we seem to have an enclosing bubble around us while my exes were yapping by the door, or how I zoned out when we ate the morning meal.

Then it hit me.

It hit me I am supposed to be running an errand, just like I told my exes.

I received an email earlier this morning that left my insides distorted. I quickly grabbed my phone and urgently dialed a number who would clear the haze.

"Puck."

"Yo, lady boss."

"What is that _juicy scoop_ you sent me? What is the name of the runaway bride?"

"Let me see," I hear shuffling. "She goes by the name Brittany Susan Pierce," he says.

And I never thought fate would betray me like this.

* * *

**A/N: **Dun dun dun. Thanks to everyone who's reading!


	4. Chapter 4

_"She goes by the name Brittany Susan Pierce."_

I didn't believe it at first when I saw the draft Puck sent me with the headline 'Real-life Runaway Bride Spotted.' I convinced myself that the same scenario could happen to different persons at the same day, and it is largely possible. The earth is so huge, and time sometimes disorients itself, and various things occur simultaneously.

I told myself that Brittany is not the bride the article is pertaining to. I ignored the draft and convinced myself: It's not her that my website would be exposing. I tricked myself enough to the point that I carried on with the morning happily.

Apparently, denial won't do the magic. It's _her_.

"Puck, I am going to ask you something I have never asked before." I said every word slowly, like he might make a move if I uttered something wrong.

"My dick size?"

"Miniscule," I immediately brushed off his vulgarity.

He laughs. "What's up, Lezpez?"

"Do _not _publish that article," I mutter commandingly. "Whatever it cost us, do _not _publish it."

"_What_? Why?" He was dubious. "What's gotten into you? Do you know how many hits this post would give our site? Tons, Santana. _Tons_," he emphasized, "This runaway bride in an extravagant wedding with a cheater supposedly-husband article would be _classical_. And Quinn? – Our homegirl will go mad full house at you if she knew you dismissed her humungous efforts to take advantage of that dickhead with the humungous mouth."

I was quiet.

"Seriously, Santana, what's with this article that's gotten you worried? Did it remind you of a traumatic childhood experience? Is it too sensitive to be tackled and shit?"

"Shut up," I say grumpily. "Just don't publish anything until we talk. Meet me by The Bistro in twenty."

"Sure, lady boss. I'm bringing Quinn."

"Don't bring your boner, though," I told him and hang up.

* * *

I began journalizing random instances in my life since I learned to comprehend proper language. That's in 1990 and eight years after. This was encouraged by my father. I started blogging when I was twenty. This was because it was a hype. That was in 2010. I've always loved writing, or basically expressing my thoughts.

Now, my thoughts aren't always derogative and cryptic – but they _usually _are, at a particularly large amount of time. I can't help it, maybe it's innate. Rumor has it I told the nurse she's fat when I got out of my mother's womb. I am a legend. I ridicule people at their simplest nature, and vast majority of people would find it rude, while some who share the same cognitive and moral wavelengths as mine would find it funny.

I soon got buzz from the internet, which ultimately lead me to establish a website of my own. Exploit dot com, that's what I named it. From the title itself, the site's aim is to make fun of people and get profit from it.

To put it simply, I was mean and my website is satirical. And what can I say? We live in a cynical age. People liked the way I think _and_ write.

In the course of my blogging, I met people who shared the same views as mine. One of them is Puck, who soon introduced me to another blogger, Quinn.

I own Exploit. I administer the website. Puck and Quinn are my most-trusted contributors all over the world.

While my work is to hateful humor, Puck is to vulgarity and political issues, and Quinn is to societal matters and personal grace. I don't know how the three of us ended up collaborating together in Exploit, given that we don't share similar scopes, but I believe that if you look closely – hateful humor, vulgarity and political issues, societal matters and personal grace – are plainly interrelated, one way or another. In addition, I guess the diversity of ideas helped the website to boom and for people to continually visit it.

There may be money from hard work, but there is also money – _lots of it_ – from people's misfortunes.

I wouldn't contend how Brittany interpreted my way of living. Cozy, she said.

Puck, Quinn, and I get along so fine. How would the site last if we didn't? However, we define 'fine' in a more complicated manner. We meant it in such a way that Puck and I persistently annoy the fuck out of each other, and where Quinn and I constantly bicker like unfed cats. When I first met Puck, he came off charming to me and I even find his jokes funny. But soon enough, his charm wore off and I ultimately found him pestering. Of course I mean this in the most affectionate lesbro affection possible. And Quinn – oh man, I extremely disliked the girl when Puck introduced us. I read her work, sure, and she made sense in her points – but she gave off the vibe that we wouldn't agree on many things. And just like with my experience with Puck, things changed through time and satiation. I got used to the argument of who's hotter – me or her – when the three of us go out, of who gets more hits, of who's better – until our connection grew to a more sisterly one.

Yep, we get along _so_ fine.

That is why I am dipping Quinn's french fry to generous amounts of ketchup. She swats my arm and reprimands me, "Bitch, don't take what's mine."

I just made a face at her before munching on the said fry.

We were at The Bistro, our favorite hangout place, because they have the best milkshakes. And damn right, it's better than yours. The three of us were sat by a booth, all ordered a milkshake – chocolate for me, strawberry for Quinn, avocado for Puck (because he's green) – and were silently enjoying the sweet treat. I observed the place around me.

People were more of leaving than entering, given that lunchtime is almost over. The air was still filled with animated talking, but it is obvious that it has been less crowded. The patio outside I saw via glass walls was also occupied by few customers who smoke. The floor where my feet are planted consists of checkered tiles, and the cushion where my back is slouched against is snug and red.

I never liked pleasantries anyway, so I decided to directly delve to the reason of our gathering.

"The girl in your article, Puck and Quinn, I met her last night."

"So straightforward," Puck comments. "She wants it off, Q."

Quinn's chewing slowed and she was looking at me and Puck to and fro, as if calculating if she was being kidded or not.

"Why for?" The hazel-eyed blonde questions whilst wiping her hands with a napkin.

"She's devastated," I stated simply. "She doesn't need mean people laughing at her, or us ridiculing her situation. Just don't publish it, okay?"

"And so?" Quinn prompts coolly, but I know she's gradually getting annoyed because she can't understand me. "Do you remember that story we covered together when a woman beat up a man because he farted on her face? And then she was sent to jail, and I know she was _so _devastated then. Did you tell me to hold it? No. Did it get a lot of hits? It did. Did it bring us plenteous of money? Definitely."

"That woman is different from Brittany, more obviously on their cases," I argued.

"Whoa, bro," Puck buts in, slightly surprised, "Did you guys got _friendly_? You say her name like you know her personally."

"How did the two of you even meet?" Quinn's brows were already knitted in a manner I am _very _familiar with.

I was left silent again because I didn't know how to answer their queries.

"Santana," the only blonde in our blogger trio says my name pointedly, her voice low, usually meaning menace. "To expose that guy – what's his name? Sam, I think. He's just 'asshole' in my head – to expose Sam, I've been to many troubles. My morning jog was out of schedule because he goes to that slut house two in the morning. And you know what I do? I stay up from eleven in the evening to five in the morning just so I could spy on his unfaithful activities. I'm supposed to jog at six, but I'm tired so I can't anymore. I may be getting fatter and these fries and shake are not even helping! And my eyes, Santana, _my _eyes, they are never the same. What is seen can never be unseen! I've put so much into this to have you put it off." She pauses, and locks eye contact with me. "I already have the pictures from the beginning, when they were still a sweet couple, to the climax, the slut house incident up to the wedding where Brittany slaps Sam and she runs away. It's all ready, Santana. This stellar story is ready to be published. It's only you who's stopping our progress."

"_Stellar_?" I echoed.

If I stayed home last night, I wouldn't have met Brittany. _If _I hadn't met her, will my choice differ at present? Who is she anyway? She's still practically a stranger, only that I took care of her for a while. Why would I exchange profit for someone who I really don't know all that much, right? If I agreed to let them publish this article, there's nothing to lose, but only something to gain. Why am I being such a killjoy?

But the obvious thing is: I had met Brittany.

I may be rude, but I still have some human decency left in me. In a strange way, I know I cared about Brittany's well-being. I saw her hurting, and I know telling other people her story wouldn't be a big help to her situation. I want her to move on from such an ugly incident in her life, because like I said, she deserves to be happy – and making a buzz of it on the internet would certainly dig that dark hole deeper in her life.

I guess I'm just concerned.

And, of course, I don't want her to get mad at me. I value what she thinks of me, though this is a really new idea to me. I never cared. I admit I like the girl, even if it wasn't the best of timings. I have a preconceived idea in my head that all people are ugly and even meaner than I am. I don't know why – I just do. And Brittany? – She's none of that.

"Just don't publish it, Q," I say both firmly and softly, if that's possible. "I promise we'll find something _more _stellar. Okay?"

Quinn purses her lips, trying to find the words to say. Every second was excruciating. If this idea of looking out for Brittany is new to me, you can infer it is most definitely alien to Puck and Quinn as well. I know they're both puzzled by me right now. What Quinn came up with was, "Tell me how the two of you meet."

My mind slowed down with the excuses I will be feeding them when I registered what she said. I turned extremely dreamy when asked about that particular bride.

"Brittany and I," I started, "Fate has laid a hand.

"I met her at a bar where she was sulking and apparently being mocked by Rick and Azimio, so I spoke up for her…" I continued telling them our expedition together from that night beating Sam, up to the morning we spent in my apartment, all states of dreamy eyes and dopey smile while in the process. I never left a detail out.

"Bro! What is this? – _A miracle_?! I never thought I'd come across a happily wistful Santana! You're whipped, man!"

"Santana! Look at that – an after story! This is too good to be true! Is there more to this?! Marvelous!"

Puck and Quinn eagerly demanded answers to this type of questions, which I deemed ultimately unnecessary and annoying.

"I know you are very hungry for more, and there are – but before that, you have to abide by my conditions," I taunted wickedly.

The guy with the Mohawk scoffs, "We don't publish _her _story."

"Santana…" Quinn warns me with a piercing glare.

"I don't have all the time in the world," I say nonchalantly.

The two bloggers were looking at me, at each other, at their surroundings. I can tell this is a losing battle for them. I smirk, just because.

"Fine," they exhale in unison.

"I will never whine about my wasted efforts, but I want _everything_, Lopez. Everything."

"She's kind of hot so I'm up for this."

It was settled just like that.

And I was happy because income didn't outweigh our friendship, and also because I get to share Brittany and I's shared moment.

"Very well then," I clapped my hands at once in elation. "Here goes…"

* * *

_I lent Brittany a gray hoodie of mine for her to wear because I had a thought a girl like her isn't accustomed going out with just a shirt on. She smiled at me gratefully, like she always does, and put on the said clothing piece. And just like with my favorite cat tee, my hoodie fit her perfectly. She looked so snug I wanted her to hug me again._

_"__Ready to go back home?" I asked half fake-cheerfully and half really-cheerfully._

_"__Not really, but let's," she said with a smile that made her younger than her years._

_I grinned back and opened my apartment door for her. And to my Lexus we went._

* * *

"You're such a sweetheart," Puck teases me.

"Don't interrupt," I hushed him and purposefully ignored his comment.

In my peripheral vision was Quinn giving me a quizzical look, like she can't believe me. That I ignored, too.

* * *

_In my car, it wasn't like last night when we had our thoughts floating all over the place; In this moment, we knew we had so much to say that we couldn't get any out of our mouths. We were both queasy. I think I was the good kind of queasy and she was the bad one._

_"__Santana," Brittany finally spoke._

_"__Hm?" I said, stealing a quick glance at her, mindful of driving._

_"__Hi." She blushed._

___"Hi," I said back._ I weirdly emitted the same bodily reaction. I felt heat on my cheeks.  


_In that moment, I felt like I was a teenager driving her date back home to her parents. I felt like I wanted to shake their hands, even hug them, and tell them they should do a better job of looking out for their daughter._

* * *

"That's horrifyingly cute," Quinn remarks snidely.

"I think," Puck says with a mouthful of fries, "A better way to introduce yourself to Brittany's parents would be: 'Hey, I encouraged your daughter in unlawful activities, but please know it was of great outlet for your daughter when she was at her angriest. You're welcome, and pleasure to meet you as well.'"

I chuckle, "That won't be a nice first impression. I never got to meet them anyway. If only you wouldn't keep making side comments, you would know why."

"Proceed."

* * *

_"__Turn left," Brittany had instructed me, and I did._

_What greeted me was something I didn't expect. I turned off the ignition, and paused to look at Brittany._

_"__This is where you live?"_

_She smiled shyly at me, and nods a little._

_I was incredulous as I took it in._

_Two grand gates, shiny and black, were pushed back, enough to make a car enter. What follows it was a wide red-brick pathway that leads to what I thought was paradise. The pavement was lined by tall coconut trees, the rays of the almost-noon sun piercing through its big, swaying leaves. Everything was the perfect contrast of blue, red, yellow and green. I can make out from afar what I suppose was their white mansion. I turned my head and saw a security outpost with no one present inside._

_I was about to ask Brittany if why is that so, but she said 'Keep driving,' so I did._

_"__When I'm not around, everything here scrambles," she told me after a little while. I intentionally kept the car's pace slow, because I was reveling at the sight Brittany's 'home' had to offer. "They lose their sense of routine when I'm absent."_

_"__You taking off must have really disoriented them, then," I said._

_"__Absolutely, if that guard-less guardhouse is anything to go with."_

_I shrugged, and went on to absorb Brittany's haven. I halted my car when I reached an intersection, unsure of where to go. I hit the brakes and saw Brittany watching me.  
_

_"This is a nice place," I told her, caught being awestruck._

_"I would love to tour you around if given another instance," she said almost coyly._

_And me being my natural pessimistic self, I said, "But we haven't met at another instance."_

_Brittany understood what I meant and smiles with empathy. "I should tell you to take left, but allow me to show you my favorite spot here. It's the least I can do, and the most I can show, given my situation."_

_So I took right._

* * *

"Why do I sense something heartbreaking will be happening?" Puck mutters with his head cradled by his propped arm. He's like a child lost in a story. "Blondie is so wealthy."

Quinn is worse, knitted brows and chin atop tented hands. I didn't know they were so engrossed."This is still too good to be real," she says.

"Is the commercial break over?"

They nod.

* * *

_The favorite spot Brittany was pertaining to was apparently a pond place. She basically owns a promised land. I didn't expect this much of wealth from her, not because she seemed less-fortunate, but because she never gave off a snob vibe you would typically feel from rich people. I thought she's humble, and admire her for that.  
_

_When Brittany got out of the car, so did I. She didn't close the door, and again, neither did I. We let it open, as I felt the fresh air kiss my face. I felt like I was in a movie scene – healthy green shrubs surround me, a lone open cabin by the far side, clear, blue water with faint quacking of ducks to stimulate my ears, and most importantly, a very beautiful leading lady to accompany me. The only thing that wouldn't pass as a movie-scene-characteristic is that the sun was too high for my liking. It would have been better if this scene was shot at as the sun sets. It would have been more romantic and more unrealistic.  
_

_Unlike in the movies, we don't get to choose our timings in actual life. The truest things happen sporadically._

_And the fact that it was noon when it happened proved to me that I wasn't dreaming. A lady as beautiful, as fortunate, and as kind as Brittany genuinely exists in reality._

_I situated my ass against the hood of my car, and watched as she walked towards the direction of the pond._

_"Santana, don't miss out," she called after me with a giggle. "I'd like to introduce you to my friends!"_

_I followed her as she wanted me to. _

_I witnessed yet again another mundane thing bringing Brittany delight and everything about her turning up. Just like when she was watching morning cartoons. And if ducks could smile, I'm pretty sure her ducks could qualify as toothpaste endorsers by then. The quacking got louder as Brittany came closer, some even flapped their wings and got to land. They seemed really excited about seeing her. Soon enough, four ducks were pooling by her feet._

_"They know you," I commented._

_"That's because I know them, too."_

_I watched as Brittany and her ducks unite, both parties ecstatic to be in the company of the other. I know I said I'm not a fan of any animal, but seeing these ducks cheer Brittany up – that might just change._

_"We don't have any bread to feed you guys right now, but I'll be back later," she told them. Collective quacks came back as a response. After the petting was over, she turned to me._

_"I told you I have an affinity with ducks, didn't I?"_

_I nod, "You did."_

_"Well, that's because I was an only child," she revealed to me. "Spoiling me with material things never satisfied me, not because I couldn't get enough, but because they're lifeless. I wanted something to keep me company. Animals, specifically ducks and a cat, gave me that."_

_I imagined a young Brittany in a luxurious room with all the doll the world, completely bored and lonely. I recalled how jolly she was this morning despite she stood up her own wedding. I realized these ducks helped her cope, and for that, I wanted to give them a brofist if I could._

_"Were they always the same ducks ever since?" I asked._

_"Sadly, no," she said nostalgically, gazing at her duck friends. "Few eventually die, but the upside is they reproduce. So there's always new ducks to take care of."_

_"Well, introduce me!" I said with a grin. She's so adorable and things._

_"Guys, this is Santana. She saved me last night."_

_She excitedly told me the names of each duck. I actually stored their identities in my mind, but I failed in telling them apart. I could only distinguish Waddles and Fargo because Waddles is the biggest one while Fargo is the one who doesn't join the paddling. The rest – Hotstuff, Groucho, Ankles, Sambo, T.J., and Spielberg – only Brittany could discern. She said I'd get better telling who from who through time, and that she'd tell me the story of the ducks ending up with their respective names. That sent my stomach churning because she was implying there could be a possibility of us hanging out again some time soon. I smiled too eagerly.  
_

* * *

"A goner right here, everyone," Puck remarks with a mischievous smirk. I wanted to agree, but thought it was too soon. I wouldn't admit defeat too quickly.

"I can sense this is close to over," Quinn tilts her head in a curious manner.

"Yes."

"No!"

* * *

_When silence blanketed us, and the sunrays was getting too hot, I wanted to go back to the confinements of my car, and just lock both of us there. I know the time of parting has come, and I shouldn't be _this _reluctant to let her go. But I am. Fucking weird, I thought then and until now._

_"Santana," she said, pulling me out of my trance about avoiding the inevitable parting._

_"Brittany."_

_"As much as I'd want to also introduce you to my parents and share your greatness to them, I want to excuse you from such trouble."_

_"That's really not necessary," I told her earnestly, because it really isn't._

_"No, it is," she insisted. "Who knows where that two guys from the bar would have taken me hadn't you appeared. I was honestly losing the will to resist then. I was so exhausted by the running away, the crying, and the hurting. But you showed up just in time, and magically took all of those away. If my daughter was to meet someone who was such of big help, I would want to thank her as well."_

_I felt hotter, but the outside temperature has nothing to do with it. "You already thanked me, you know," I brushed her off. She spoke so highly of me it's unbelievable._

* * *

"They're saying goodbyes!" Quinn exclaims as she punches Puck's arm. "I don't want to hear it!"

"The hell, Q?" Puck and I laughed at the shorter blonde's antics.

* * *

_"I wanted to do it again," she said with a cheeky smile. "Again and again and again."_

_I smiled back and started heading for my car. I thought our time at her favorite spot was over. I'd drive her to her main home, and then we're done for the day. I served her well and I'm satisfied._

_Brittany follows me. She follows me up to the driver's door._

_"Um, you want to drive?" I asked tentatively. Even dumbly, in hindsight._

_"No, silly," she shook her head. "I just wanted to do this."_

_And for the second time of this day, I was enveloped by her warmth. She hugged me to close proximity and I'm never complaining about a deed like this any time of any day._

_When we parted, I was sure I was smiling longingly. I never got to see her expression, though, because she quickly ran to the other side of the car. She closed the open door there, put her arm against the car roof, and placed her head atop it.  
_

_I mirrored her latter action and sighed. Man, she looked so divine with the sun casting a halo over her head._

_"I'll see you soon, yeah?"_

_"You sure you don't want me to drive you back?" I swear this was not a technique of prolonging our time together.  
_

_"You've done so much," she bit the inside of her cheek. "Besides, I think this is one of the walks I ought to take alone. You know, to prepare how to explain myself to everyone."_

_"I understand," I nod. "I hope all goes well."_

_She smiles appreciatively.  
_

_"Soon, then," I said pensively._

_My last sight of Brittany was at my rearview mirror, her hugging my hoodie close to her and waving a hand._

_We're done for the day._

* * *

"Tell me there's more," Quinn insists. "I want more!"

"That's a good tale," Puck notes with a satisfied smile on his face.

"I can see you're both so _into _my experience with the runaway bride, and you get to know a glimpse of her, so I expect you now understand why I don't want to exploit her," I say seriously.

"Yeah," the only guy in the table was quick to dismiss of bringing that topic back. I guess he still felt bad about the supposed hits, but now understood my side. I mean, Brittany's awesomeness is so awesome it transcends through my story-telling.

"She's nice," Quinn says fake-distractedly. She knew I was right on my call.

I was about to go on and tell them Brittany's more than nice, "She really has beautiful eyes, you know? It captures you and stops you from looking away – _and oh my fucking milkshake._ I'm a dimwit. I just realized something. _Holy, fucking, shit._ I am a dimwit."

"About time," Quinn rolls her eyes expertly. "What is it?"

I realized I don't even have her number!

"Oh," Puck laughs, "This is the part where I was expecting heartbreak."

* * *

**A/N: **I am having so much fun writing this, and I hope you guys share the same experience in reading! Tell me your thoughts about this chapter if you feel like it!

**Disclaimer: **I do not affiliate with Glee, Fox, The Bistro, and Exploit dot com. I own nothing!


	5. Chapter 5

I am okay.

I'm far past from my angered and confused state back when I ran away from my own wedding. I've been surrounded with nothing but love, courtesy of my family and friends. I know they pitied me, or politely put, sympathized with me. But I will be ever so grateful for that. If not for their care, I'd be healing a lot less slowly.

"Mom, I feel so stupid," I cried on my mother's shoulder when I got home from the day Santana dropped me off. "I'm so, _so _sorry." My mother hugged me tightly and warmly, all ears listening to my nonsensical babblings, cooing me to calm. I basked into the inimitable motherly comfort Mama Susan was endlessly giving me. I cried until inhaling required effort and sobbing became regularity. I cried until I had my father peppering the top of my head with kisses.

"I should've known," I tried to argue with them, but they were hearing none of it.

"If Sam were ever to bother you, Brittany, I don't know what I could do," Papa Robert had told me resolutely. "A father whose daughter has been mercilessly hurt is someone you don't mess with."

I can't help but to still feel worried for Sam's well-being by how grave my dad was.

I can't say I'm over Sam because I try not to think of him and what he did to me. Whatever, whenever, wherever, however something comes close across me to associate with him, I do my best to steer away from that. Sam is a person in my life whom I cared so much about. He's not just anybody. I don't think of him as a hollow character in my existence. He was the first person to stand up for my honor when kids in middle school would mock me for being too tall. He was also the one who could make me laugh when nobody else can. He played a substantial role in my life, and to have him cheat on me – it hurt me badly.

"Were you ever _in_ love with him?" Tina once asked when I was sleeping over in her apartment. She was one of my bridesmaids.

Since my parents thought that the parental affection they provided me already sufficed, they suggested I lean onto sisterly affection. Being an only child, and one that doesn't have so many friends, I tend to be really connected with only a specific number of people.

"Yeah, Britt, I could bet all of my daddy's money that the relationship you and Sam had was incestuous," Sugar had supplemented in. She was also one of my bridesmaids. "I mean, you truly looked like sibs. Are you really sure it was the kind of love that would bring you to extents of 'I'd do anything for him because I cared so deeply about him and not because we're related in a familial way'?"

"I loved him," I would solemnly, simply answer them.

Moving on from Sam would be a task that requires time, but every living cell in my body is directed towards that cause. When you've put so much trust in a person who decided to throw it all away, you just have to accept that you've been wrong and you're better off without him. I try to incorporate this principle into myself every day, rather than to sulk and to mope around about how stupid and blindsided I was.

Healing emotionally is never easy, but everyone gets over someone some point in their lives. I just have to be patient and know that I will get there myself.

I am okay.

* * *

At present, I have been keeping myself busy. I'm reading as much books as my brain could absorb, dancing as long as my body could restrain, feeding my ducks as much as they could digest. I don't let myself be unoccupied because I know it will only take me to ugly places.

I don't want to be there, of course.

I was tying my running shoes by the kitchen before I get some water to drink. It is 6AM, and I am about to go for a jog, then to meet Tina (and Sugar, if she manages to wake up) for breakfast. When I was replenished for the morning, I left a note on the fridge for my parents. They really, _really_ worry about me nowadays. I don't fail on assuring them I can handle myself, though. It's a broken heart, not a broken sanity.

I rounded our lot first before I finally stepped out from the seclusions of my home. Dave Karofsky, our security guy, gave me a wave and a friendly smile as I went. It's too bad Santana hadn't met him; though burly at first look, Karofsky is a sweet guy. I even have a feeling him and Santana would get along.

As much as Sam has been non-existent in my life, so has been Santana. We did say we're going to see each other soon, but I didn't know how soon her soon is. For less than 24 hours, I've come to feel instantly close to her. I wasn't expecting we'd immediately meet after the day we parted, but I've been waiting for, what, over three weeks now. It's not even like I'm counting each day. It's just that I put away the clothes she's lent me in a zip-up plastic bag to retain her distinct fragrance, and I checked yesterday if the rich scent was still there (it was), and reflexively counted the days it has been with me.

She's pretty cool, truly badass, and not to mention drop-dead gorgeous, after all. I guess I just wanted to see her again.

If this equates to missing Santana, well, okay, I'll take that.

Like I said, she was great to me and she was fun. I like everything about her so far.

So while I jog, I replayed the moments I had with the brunette, irrationally hoping she'd get a telepathic message of some sort from me to show up soon. I remembered the way she looked when she was trying to distinguish my ducks from the other, repeatedly getting Spielberg mistaken as Hotstuff. She took memorizing their names seriously, and that added to her overall attractive factor. I also recall the very fascinated expression she had plastered on her face when we arrived at the gates of my home. It was so memorable, how the scenery could ignite a special glint in her eyes. It could be compared to a child's first time in a museum, only that Santana is more vibrant.

I jogged and I jogged with a cloud of Santana in my mind. My Dad said jogging released endorphins, which are responsible for giving the feeling of happiness. He also told me that going in hurdles after hurdles relieve tension, un-clutter the mind, and lessen aggression. Who am I to argue? He's read more books than I did.

At the first week of my return, Papa Robert came with my morning runs. He asked me to channel my energies to something beneficial, not something worthless. I know he wanted jogging to become an avenue for my life-reflection activities. I tried to reflect at the first days, I really did, but can't will myself to actually do. Besides, Tina and Sugar have been dissecting my feelings like an emotion surgeon whenever we get to talk anyway, so I thought that could already count. On the second week, Dad let me go alone running, saying it would be better for me. It made no difference, though. My dad, mom, and my friends were focused on talking about and discussing the _before _and _during _of my supposedly wedding. They never wondered where my wedding gown went, or how I changed clothes. They never asked the _after,_ when all I really wanted to do is talk about the girl who saved me from my demise.

Inattentively, I didn't know I already reached the city park. How come Santana keeps my mind away from things even if she's not around?

Needing to catch my breath, and some water I bought from the side, I sat on a bench. Was I running too fast? It felt like I wanted to chase something – or someone. Who, I can't tell myself. Or maybe I was running away again. From what, I can't tell either. I'm still jagged at these parts of myself.

I gulped down the refreshment, relieved from the cool feeling against my throat. The heaving of my chest has calmed down, and I wiped away my perspiration with the towel I brought.

Okay, what did I just do? Am I setting up a record time? I feel good about it, though. However, there's still the itch to see Santana. I'm holding on to that few, but truly precious, memories we had before my brain decides to chunk it all away. Repeating it in my head helps me to keep it vivid, but replaying the same scenarios is frustrating.

I fished my phone out of my pocket and decided to end this excruciation! I'm googling Santana. Somehow, there's going to be search results relating to her, right? _Right?_

There appeared a suggestion of 'Santana Lopez' under a search bar, and I chose it. I thought that last name suited her.

And there I learned Santana is an internet personality. She did mention she runs a blog.

It only goes to show however I feel connected to her, I only know so little about her.

So I read.

* * *

"Quinn, where the hell do you get this kind of stories?" I asked incredulously while she pulled over at the side of a plain-looking house. "A guy calling and texting her girl 21,807 times? That's insane!"

My blonde friend smiles, "I've received an email. The girl herself asked us to exploit him. He's already been jailed for four months, purportedly ten. Obsessed guy is somehow giving hints to go deluging his ex with infinite calls and texts _again_."

"That averages, like, 73 calls a day," I mutter, looking away from my phone. "So we're here to publicly, and widely, shame him?"

"You're here to knock on his door," Quinn turns her body to face me. "Falsely ask him for an interview, which I'm sure he'll turn down, or whatever tactic for him to show his face, while I'm here at the car taking his pictures."

"As far as I remember, I'm supposedly above you!" I whine because Quinn has kept me doing the tough parts of an article. "Why do you keep doing this to _me_?"

One time, Quinn and I were out for breakfast and we happened to come across who we call 'Ms. Selfie 2014.' She was a burglar, part of a house-robbing incident. While she was keeping watch outside, and her other burglar friends were doing their thing inside, Ms. Selfie 2014 was caught on CCTV to be, well, taking a selfie. Both Quinn and I reckoned she already served her time, so Quinn instructed me to ask a picture with her. When our picture was posted on Exploit, it went viral. I felt like I was exploited, too.

There was also an instance when my overly annoying blonde friend and I went grocery shopping. Misfortunes of people just keep colliding with our paths. We saw the 69-year-old man who was popular for intruding a house, not to steal, but to cook himself a corn cob. He was obviously on the produce aisle when we saw him. Quinn wanted me to go and make small talk with him, thinking we'd make a story off him. I suffered a huge amount of pervy looks in going with her demand.

However pesky, Quinn stayed true to her words. She never spoke about her wasted efforts when I asked Puck and her to not publish Brittany's story. Nonetheless, she has been tenacious about finding stories that would make up for that lost one. In an indirect way, I feel like she's doing these things to me for pay back, to get even. I reluctantly let her, though, because I actually felt guilty for wasting her work. I just don't know when she'll get enough.

Just because I let her doesn't mean it makes it less pestering. I'm so close on backstabbing Quinn with a post of my own in my blog, I swear.

Quinn just gives me a pointed look as if to say 'are you complaining?'

In response, I heavily got out of her car and walked for the door. I don't even know how the guy looks like. I just wanted this to get over and done with.

I climbed his porch, and knocked three times. I was waiting for almost two minutes when I heard locks and bolts unlatching at the opposite side. The obsessive guy is apparently potbellied and he has a baseball cap reversely worn. I can't tell whether he's just in a gruff mood or that surly expression in his face is permanent.

"Um, hi!" I greeted him exaggeratedly brightly. "Good day today, isn't it?"

He slightly raises a brow, and I know that translates to 'what the fuck do you want?' I mastered that look myself. I mean, talk about my exes wounding up in my door almost everyday!

Although he's almost thrice my size, I try not to be intimidated.

"I just wanted to ask if I could borrow some of your time? I am Santana Lopez, I mean no harm at all, and if you're open for a few questions–"

"No," he brashly cut me off at the same time I saw him draw something shiny at the corner of my eye. "You're one of those reporters who pretends to give a shit but actually doesn't just so you could snoop into my life! Yes, I committed 21,807 calls before, and I'm planning to commit more until she would finally commend the renovation I did at our apartment!"

The burly guy fully reveals the shiny thing by his side – a tomahawk! A FREAKING TOMAHAWK! Nobody told me he was neurotic! That over twenty thousand calls should have ticked me!

I cautiously took the steps back as he was feeling the weight of the deadly tool in his hands.

"Oh, I'm sure that renovation is wonderful!" I managed to tell him enthusiastically. "Your ex-girlfriend would be _so _happy to see it!"

And there I managed to ruin my high chances of running away to safety. This is one of the moments I wish I hadn't said anything.

"_Ex-girlfriend_?" He practically growled at me. "I know she still loves me! We're still together! Don't you dare imply we're over!"

"I wasn't!" I shrilled as he was making the steps outside the confinements of his lair. He was carrying the tomahawk like it was a light-air pen. "It was an honest mistake!"

I only hope Quinn has captured her precious, precious photos by this time. I ain't risking my life for nothing!

The disturbed axe-man was looking at me banefully, like I was a good piece of a tree stump to practice his tomahawk with. I felt so threatened and scared my heart started to break my ribcage. Sure, I got my fair share of badassery, but I don't think I'm any match to this guy.

"I'll chop you in half," he told me in a hoarse and menacing voice, and that's when I knew I was in trouble.

This man probably used up his sanity to make those numerous calls.

I began to run for dear life. I'm so grateful I was so lazy to dress up today, ending up with comfortable clothes. I wasn't running towards Quinn's car, I'm going the opposite direction. Had I gone there, Quinn would be another target, being dragged into this sudden pursuit, and, honestly – I think slashing tires with a freaking tomahawk is easier than chasing me.

Neurotic Axe Man is shouting behind me, something like 'THIS IS SPARTA!'

I yelled something as unintelligent, "I'm sure as fuck you can't keep up with the Kardashians, so why bother keeping up with me?!"

"YOU LITTLE SCUMMY BEAN BURRITO! I WILL GET YOU!"

I heard Quinn rev up her engine, but I was running and running. Quinn isn't dumb. She's going to save my ass. I ran away from her and Tomahawk Guy.

I ran so fast I thought my limbs would fall off. I beat the red light in crossing the street, a cab with an obnoxious honk after me. I did not dare look behind me. He looks so heavy, and he probably is, which will inevitably slow him down. I'm lighter and faster, even though I don't have a weapon. Ha!

Alley after alley, I ended up in civilization. I was by the pavement, making wide strides, not minding the look of panic on my face. People of the morning gave me questioning looks. I shrugged them off. They didn't need to know my life raft is badly endangered.

Luckily, I outran Tomahawk Guy – or so I think. He's nowhere behind me, in front of me, around me. He eventually stopped chasing me. Maybe Quinn called someone or did something – and I knew that bitch would save me like I thought.

Man, do I need a break!

I saw a coffee store named 'Cup-A-Cabana' and felt the name enticing me. However hyper-awake the earlier chase made me, a cup (or four) of coffee would never hurt. I entered the store as adrenaline was wearing down on me.

* * *

As the bells of the door cling behind me, the familiar smell of coffee brewing greeted my nose. I was easily calmed. This morning's incident long forgotten. Ah, the things coffee could do. I see the line is neither short nor long. It wasn't long enough to get me impatient, but it isn't too short to have my order so quickly. I joined in line.

I stood before their menu, scanning the list. I was wondering if they have something unique, given their name being so clever. It's my first time here after all. And to my delight, they do have something different. At the most left of the menu panel, there lies a section of '_Mood Drinks,_' with the underlying caption: _Drinks to suit your soul. Feeling down? Take the Lonely flavor to cheer you up! You'll never really know what's in store! _There follows five bullets of flavors, namely: _Agitated, Felicitous, Serene, Forlorn, and Eldritch. _

Soon enough, it was my turn to order.

"Hi! Welcome to Cup-A-Cabana!" An Asian guy greets me by the counter. "What would it be today?"

"Uh, I'd take Agitated." I sounded unsure because I'm not used to using moods in ordering drinks. It's always 'venti, non-fat, mocha latte. To go.'

The Asian barista (apparently Mike, as his name tag suggests), frowns at me, though maintains steady eye-contact. "You don't seem agitated?"

I almost scoffed at him. _Almost. _He looked pleasant and nice I didn't have the normal bad mood to respond with. "Trust me, I am," I told him instead.

"Well, you'd be the first one to take a Mood Drink _and _an Agitated for the day," he says with a friendly smile. "Just so you wait, your spirits will be lifted in a few!"

I smiled at him politely. "The store name and that Mood Drink menu? Clever."

"We try," he brushed off the compliment coyly. "You'd be surprised to know how many people feel 'forlorn' these days. Name, please?"

"Santana."

"For here?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I'll make your drink myself and serve it later. I'm Mike Chang, store owner," he flashes me another one of those people-friendly smile.

I was instantly less agitated when he told me my drink would be free. I immediately looked for a spot I could relax on. At least running so fast came with free drinks!

Cup-A-Cabana has an L-shape layout. Once you cross the door, you are directly greeted by the register and the variety of pastries at its side. I observed that this shop had an almost-black and brownish-maroon color scheme. This coffee shop is lightly dimmed, but the morning sun was bright to keep the luminescence bright. It smelled good because brewed coffees _do _smell good. There are seats and tables before me, and I didn't mind looking at the vertical component of the L since there are many available seats at the horizontal part. I took the plush seat beside a window, another vacant seat in front of me. In this way, Mike would easily find me with my Agitated drink. I'm actually interested to find out with what I will get.

Meanwhile, I felt my phone buzzing against my thigh so I brought it out. Good thing it didn't fall off from all that running. It was Quinn calling. I slid the screen to answer.

She didn't have the time for pleasantries. "You're okay, right? Where are you?"

"I'm fine, Q," I gave her the assurance she needed. She sounded really urgent and worried. "I'm in a coffee shop called Cup-A-Cabana now. I'm good. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, S," she says. "I called the cops while he was chasing you, and I'm exploiting that man big time when I get home."

"I'm glad we're both fine."

"So am I." I imagine her nodding a little. "Do you want me to go there? I can totally ditch Puck and the videogame he wants to show off."

"God, we're losers," I chuckled lightly.

"Losers together," she said in agreement.

"No, run with your plans. I can handle it, Q. Puck will kill me if he knew I was holding your time with him. Thanks anyway."

Quinn tried to argue and make the efforts of a good friend that she is but I had my mind set that her day should go as planned. I told her a brief summary of what went down with Tomahawk guy, but I didn't get to finish when I heard Mike calling my name.

"Listen, Q, I have to end this call. But one thing's for sure: He is neurotic. Ha, yeah, you bet he is. I'll call you later. A date? Fuck no. I met the store owner, and I think he's concerned about my well-being. He has a dick – ain't my type, babe. He seems really nice, though. He's hot. Okay. Yes. Okay. Bye."

"Santana?" Mike calls out, searching for my face.

I raised my hand to grab his attention, but he already went to the vertical part of the L. I'm not there. Out of appreciation for his kindness, I stood up and decided to just follow him myself.

I made a beeline to where he disappeared from my sight. Whom I saw was the one I did not expect, but was dying, to see.

She was sat on the same kind of chair I was occupying earlier. She was reading the newspaper, a glass of red iced tea on the table before her, and she had her silky blonde hair in a loose ponytail. She seemed to be at ease. It appeared like she was 'in her element.' She still looked like art. Not a broken one, though. She looked livelier right now. From afar, I could imagine her cheeks less paler and her eyes brighter. I felt my stomach feeling funny by the mere sight of her.

I'm so happy I ran so fast earlier. Had I been slower, not only will Tomahawk Guy would have kept up with me, but I will not be able to be in the same place, at the same time, Brittany was in. I may have lost the chance to finally, _finally_ see her again.

"Santana?" Mike calls out again, doing a quick scan of the shop.

I saw Brittany's eyes widen in recognition. She completely stopped reading, and turned to Mike.

"Santana is here?" She asked him with hesitation.

"Uh, she is," Mike answers just as uncertainly. "Are we even talking about the same Santana?"

"I think you are," I say as I chose to announce my presence.

* * *

"Hey, there you are!" Mike cheers happily when we saw her. "Here's your Agitated. I hope you like it, and feel better by the end of it."

"I'm not going to inflate your ego and tell you that I'm sure I will, but I highly hope this would taste really good," Santana replied with a kind smile. "Thanks again," she said as Mike give the cup to her.

The owner of Cup-A-Cabana and Tina's boyfriend turned to me, the look on his face obviously implying 'you know each other?'

"Hi, Brittany," she finally spoke to me after three weeks and more. She had her brows knitted in an adorable manner, like she wasn't sure if I was really here. "I'm so, _so _happy to see you again."

"Hi." It was all I could say, and I know I should've said more, but I didn't. I was just admiring how the color black really suits her. Her v-neck shirt was black, as well her leggings, and even her Converse! It was all black. She was so captivating.

"I was meaning to chat with Santana, but I can see you two needs to catch up, yeah?" Always the polite one, Mike is. "I'll leave you to it, and see you around then." He hurriedly goes to the register to shower amiability to his customers.

"Sit," I motioned for the seat opposite me. "I'm happy to see you, too."

She grinned, making her dimples show. She extends her phone to me, and I just stared at it.

"Number," she explains. "I was so frustrated I forgot to ask your number when we met. I don't think I want to wait this long again before fate decides to cross our paths again."

"Technology doesn't alter fate," I mumble playfully as I tapped in my number. "I know you're going to say people meet online now and they actually find their soulmates there, but I think that's just what fate intended to happen. They weren't supposed to meet until the internet was invented. You know what I mean? Here you go," I handed back her phone, making sure everything about the contact information was filled up.

"Thank you," she mutters. "I guess all I'm saying is that I don't want to lose you again. Okay, that's badly phrased – but you get what I mean, right? We met on a very unlikely situation, and for you to be so awesome, I find that instance really exceptional."

"You did not lose me. You knew where I lived."

Santana locks eyes with me, and her look was still as penetrating as I remembered. I feel like if I was tasked to look at Santana for the whole day, I wouldn't be complaining.

She was the first one to look away.

She takes a sip of the Agitated, and her first expression was sour.

"_Green tea_?" She exclaimed. "I never liked–" She takes a sip again. "Green tea latte?"

"I don't know what Mike's made for you. Mood Drinks are not constant. He'll make you what he thinks will help you."

"Man, that's soothing," Santana says in a moony tone, like she was savoring every drip of her latte. "The taste of tea is awful at first, but when you get the gist of it, and the foamy texture of milk hits your throat, I am in another caffeinic heaven."

I chuckled at the sight of Santana. "I'm glad you liked it."

"I'll talk to Mike later and give him the greatest brofist he's ever had," she tells me proudly, as if to convey that was a genius idea. I wanted to touch her dimples, seriously.

We fell silent, and we were stealing glances off each other. Sometimes I'd catch her looking at me, and she'd look away with a coy smile. Sometimes I'd look at her and she'd catch me, and I would slightly flush in embarrassment. I don't know why nobody's speaking.

When our stealing of glances coordinated, we laughed.

"You're silly, Britt," she says.

"No, you are," I tell her lightheartedly.

"How have you been?" She shakes her head irately, "I should have asked that in that first place, shouldn't I? I'm never good at keeping in touch, ugh."

I laugh. Santana doesn't even have to try so hard to make me laugh. Her presence alone makes me feel light inside. "It's okay. I'm okay."

"Is this a legit 'I'm okay' statement or is this one of those 'I've been asked too many times it's getting tiresome to give a genuine answer so I say I'm okay'? Because if the latter is the case, Brittany Pierce, I am not taking it."

"You're still thoughtful," I noted. "I'm okay and I mean it. Still not at my best, but definitely better when we last met."

"Dickhead a.k.a. Sam never bothered you again?"

"No. He's learned his lesson, I think."

"He better," she said with a heedful expression.

"How have _you _been?"

"Pressured," she was quick to answer. "I think I only get to have these moments of serenity when I'm with you, you know? And this Agitated drink helps too," she adds off-mindedly. "When I'm at home, my exes would be there bugging the shit outta me. When I try to work, Quinn would be there breathing on my neck, pushing me to do things. And before I got here, Brittany, I got chased by a guy thrice my size with a freaking tomahawk. But generally speaking, I'm fine."

"What? A Tomahawk?"

"_Right_? He was so native. He was also overly attached to his ex-girlfriend and I may have chosen the appropriate words to make our encounter nonviolent. But, you know, I suck at socializing."

I asked her if she was hurt physically or in any way, and she said she wasn't. I then opened up the topic of the sport of tomahawk-throwing. She laughed and didn't believe me such thing exists. I insisted it does, even read a book about it. It's then she took my word.

"I doubt if he could ever throw that, though. His arms were so flabby."

I snickered at her scrunched up expression. She laughed along with me. Conversations will always be easy with Santana, I concluded.

"I came back once," she said after a while. "To your home, I mean. Two weeks ago, I think."

"I never saw you?" I prompted tentatively.

"It was mainly because the guard never let me in. But I know I could have argued with him, insisted that you knew me – I didn't. I just said okay and drove away. I was slightly intimidated by your situation, to be honest. You're so vulnerable, and I thought tenderness from people of close ties deserve your time. But frankly, it was wholly because I'm guilty."

"Guilty of engaging me in unrighteous activities? I think you are very much aware that I am capable of making _my own_ choices. You don't have to feel guilty about anything."

"No, I do," she claims. "My blog was supposed to write a story about you and Sam's relationship. How it failed. You're someone I know and somehow I care about, so I feel bad for ever seeing you as a prospect misfortunate."

"Oh."

"I swear nothing went out, nothing ever will." She suddenly sounded like pleading. She talked so fast I thought her words overlapped each other. "I'm _so_ sorry, Brittany. I told you I'm not as kind as you thought me to be. I actually make fun of people to fend for myself. I get it you would not like to share anything with me anymore, which is totally fine, but only super sad. You're this one of a kind art I've been given a chance to look at, and now I've ruined my chances of ever seeing you again. But I absolutely understand that. I'm an ugly person in the inside, and I just can never be related to the beautiful ones. I'm sorry. Just please don't hold a grudge against me, Britt. You don't need that kind of negativity in your life."

"What are you talking about, Santana?" I said with a funny expression. "You don't have to apologize for anything. As you told me, you never published my humiliating life experience. I even think I have to thank you for that."

"It just feels _not _right. I know I didn't do something exactly wrong, but I think your forgiveness would largely clear my conscience." She takes a gulp of her Agitated. "I'd put it this way: Two unicorns plus two unicorns is equal to four unicorns. Unicorns are mythical creatures, so that statement should be non-existent because adding up unicorns is just not possible mainly because they don't exist. However, mechanically and technically, that statement is correct as well. When you add up two twos, it does, indeed, have a sum of four, whatever that twos may be. Am I getting the message across? I shouldn't be saying sorry because it's irrelevant, but I am. It feels right to say I'm sorry."

"Santana," I told her firmly to stop her blabbering. I deemed it endearing, though. Who knew such badass could sound this scared? "When two people meet, there are truly eight people meeting. Did you know that?"

"No…?"

"Well, yes," I nod. "Firstly, when I met you, you have this idea of what you appeared to me and to the people around you, generally. It's your projected self, whom you present. Secondly, when we finally do interact, I knew how you really are. You knew me. It could or could not be the same from the projected self. Thirdly, there is the concept of ourselves from other people's perspectives. It varies from person to person, depending on how we acted towards them. And lastly, there lies our _realest_, most genuine self, how we truly are, the most honest we can be.

"Now, I read about your work, Santana. I learned that you make money out of people's misfortunes. I'm not saying it's bad, because there are worse things than reporting a simple thing gone wrong, such as child molestation, sex trafficking, slavery, gender barriers, and worst. _But _I'm not saying it's _upright_, either. I'm never one to judge what you do, Santana, or what you are. I only see you as how I knew you. You say you're a bad person, but I want to differ. How you feel about yourself is a completely different perspective. You helped me when I was at my lowest. And for that, I consider you as a beautiful person as well."

Santana runs a hand through her hair, and exhales. She drinks her Agitated again.

"You're not mad?"

"For what?"

"For ever being susceptible as a feature on Exploit."

"Everyone is susceptible to a misfortune," I tell her. "So long as you stay away from my unicorns, we're cool."

She gives me her dimply smile, and says, "You are the unicorn, Britt."

* * *

**A/N: **HEY GUYS! MISSED ME? (YOU DON'T, I KNOW.) Anyway, it's still fun to write this one and I hope you guys continue to read. : Leave a review if you can! It really helps.

**Disclaimer:** I do not affiliate with Glee, Fox, Cup-A-Cabana, or any other copyrighted name mentioned. I own nothing!

PS, the stories Quinn and Santana mention are actually true to life, only a little tweaked for creative purposes. Not that it's important, but just in case some of you were wondering. Oh, well.


	6. Chapter 6

"Santana, do you see my _salient _point here?" Quinn stresses every word, with the back of her hand slamming the other. "Puck told me he would show off a videogame – he never told me it was _Pinball_. It's not even a modified version of Pinball, like it would be on Wii or something. It was just on his freaking laptop, like we were ten-year-old kids feeling badasses owning up Windows."

She shoves a mouthful of strawberry ice cream to her mouth after speaking. Not the usual classy Quinn, but she's in a situation.

"And then you know what I said?" Puck points his bottle of beer at me after taking a chug. "I asked her, 'this looks lame. Wanna make out?'"

I was looking at them sideways, uncomfortably. We were by in my apartment, on my couch. I was at the middle of it all, acting as the great wall barricading the tension between the two people I consider my closest friends.

"God, he feels like he's got so much game! He was so very lame!"

"We kissed, though!"

"_You did_?!"

"It was a mistake!" Quinn insists with her whiny voice. I thought it was annoying. That voice would always be annoying.

"Yes, Santana! Quinn and I kissed," Puck announced smugly, as if I was his dad. He was even holding out his fist for me to bump with mine. I didn't.

I ran a hand through my hair. "I feel like these conversations you two are trying to engage me to should happen independently, you know what I mean? Like, when the subject matter isn't present?"

"Dude, I swung by the convenience store to have us some beer and chips. You're my lesbro. I should be able to talk to you about things like this."

"S, you are the closest person to me that is akin as a best friend. I feel like vomiting if I ever labeled us best friends. We talked about that, right? But the point is, I brought two tubs of ice cream so I could properly vent out to you."

"I know. I know that," I say as I raise both of my hands picking up the bottle of beer and the tub of ice cream. I put it down and gave each of them a pointed look. "But, Jesus fuck, if you want to date each other, just fucking date each other already. Don't make something complicated when it really isn't."

"The thing is, it kind of is," Quinn says like she doesn't want to say it. "I'm sorry I, _or we_, ambushed you."

"It just sucks you're our only friend," Puck shakes his head laughingly. "The most legit one, that is."

"Man, we _really _are losers together," I say with a little chuckle of my own. "We got it bad."

Quinn rested her head on my shoulder as I pulled Puck by the ear so he could do the same gesture. In this manner, we were somehow in a restricted three-way hug.

"Isn't that what people say?" I wondered aloud, "A relationship is stronger if it was built on friendship?"

"Bullshit. A relationship will only last if you practice sexual activities regularly," Puck counters and I can feel him smirk against my shoulder.

"Oh, shut up, Puck. I'm trying to make a point here," I brush off his inevitable profanity. I felt Quinn shake with a giggle by my side. "Before there was Pinntana Colada, there was Nocy Liu first."

"I got the Pinntana Colada part. It's the three of us, correct? Puck plus Quinn plus Santana." Puck pulls away from my shoulder, confused. "But what the fuck is a Nocy?"

"A bad combination of our real names," Quinn answers for me, "_Noah _and _Lucy_."

"What? It's impromptu," I shrugged defensively.

They sighed dolefully in unison. By this time, both of my friends weren't leaning on me anymore. I was pretty sure their stolen glances with each other were laced with so many questions.

"The kiss was nice," Quinn admits quietly.

"Yeah, it was – until you pulled away," Puck tells him with remorse in his tone. "I really, really like you, Quinn. I hope that part is clear by now."

"I know. And I do, too, even if you're so obscene sometimes."

"Goddamn it," I mutter exasperatedly. "Now that both of your feelings are out in the open already, which are apparently mutual, what the fuck are you waiting for?"

"Quinn," Puck states simply.

The only blonde in our trio shots him a look. She runs her hand through her golden locks. "I just don't think it's right – yet. I don't know. Fuck, let's talk about something else. I don't like this."

We gave each other tentative looks to test Quinn's suggestion. I'm so down with that, given that they are both making me feel very uncomfortable. I obviously want to serve my purpose of being a good friend, but when there's too much tension in one room it almost chokes me – I can't function properly.

When Quinn chugged down Puck's beer and Puck took a spoonful of Quinn's ice cream, I thought their present issue were temporarily set aside for now. I took that as a signal of truce. I get the impression Puck not wanting to push Quinn to something she isn't sure yet, and Quinn asking for more time to mull it over.

"Santana, tell something so we could conceal the awkward," Puck instructs me mutedly.

I ignored him because there was a reply from Brittany.

_Brittany S. Pierce: Penguins are monogamous, S. They are very exemplary for the humankind. Could be effortful to maintain, but I'm sure they'll be worth it._

I stifled a laugh. I really did, because I don't want Quinn and Puck looking at me weirdly.

Currently, Brittany and I are discussing my seemingly permanent pet peeve towards any pet. She said she finds it odd, so she's enumerating different animals that could fall to my liking. She hasn't succeeded to find any yet.

I replied: _Swans are monogamous too. Penguins walk funny, B._

Apparently, stifling a laugh won't be enough. I forgot to deflect my phone from my snoopy squad.

"Who's B?" Puck questions easily to neither me nor Quinn.

"Why is there a mention of monogamy? Are you settling down?" Quinn asks incredulously.

"Well, shit," I say, and they were giving me _very _expectant looks. So I explained, "It's Brittany."

"Who?"

"The one with the douchebag groom?"

"That would be accurate, Quinn."

"Oh, _her_," Puck nods in understanding. He frowns, "You're at her?"

"What does that even _mean_?" I said with a scrunched nose. I told them how we met at Cup-A-Cabana after the Tomahawk chase incident; I didn't tell them, however, that Brittany and I have been texting since then. I mean, it's only been a day – no big deal about that, right?

"So you _are_ at her," Puck affirms his own assumption. "That's how you keep the ball rolling, yeah? You met once, then you talk, then you go out some more. Can't blame ya, she's hot."

"Santana's getting a girlfriend!" Quinn sing-songs in her high-pitched voice. Man, all of her voices sound annoying to me.

"Don't even," I say irately. "When you got up here, did you come across my exes? Don't even start with the word 'girlfriend' to me. I'm kind of scarred with the relationship thing."

"Oh, yeah, I did. They were very polite, which is new for Yvette, and I said small niceties to them. You have an array of exes I must say."

My phone vibrated once again.

_Brittany Pierce: I just don't get it. Pets are very much lovable. I'm not giving up on you, though. What about dolphins? They. will. suit. you. perfectly. (I think.)_

"Sure, you go talk about relationship and stuff," Puck speaks, "But if that goofy grin plastered on your face is not a sign of your infatuation with this Brittany girl, I don't know what else is."

I punched his arm with that verbal jab as I typed in my reply. _Are you implying I'm big as a dolphin?_

Quinn then queries, "Did you even tell her about her supposedly hit life story?"

I told them I did and that Brittany was in fact very cool about it. "I think you owe her an apology, though."

"I was just doing my job," Puck says with a frown. Quinn seconds his statement.

"Oh, whatever, you arrogant beings. I know it was never posted and shit, but we did spy on her, right? At least have some human decency."

"I mostly spied on Sam, though," the ever-so-witty blonde says. "If Brittany deserves some _human decency_, then so does he – which is actually kind of bullshit if you think about it because he had the least human decency towards Brittany. But we're out of their chaos. Whatever strain they managed to bring upon themselves does not concern us. So, you asking us to apologize to Brittany also mean apologizing to Sam."

Puck scoffs. "I see what you're trying to mean, Quinn. But I don't. C'mon now, do you really think we should be sorry for ever hinting someone her future better half would be disloyal? Not a lot of people get that advantage nowadays. Hell, _no one_ does."

"Fine," I say. "But by the moment you meet her, I'm sure you will feel so much shame about the way we fend for ourselves. I did."

"We're meeting her soon? We're at this stage _already_?"

"I get it – it's a matter of her liking us and us liking her, no? You are _definitely_ a goner, Santana."

"I wasn't even implying that!"

Quinn and Puck shared knowing glances, chuckled to themselves, and told me a sarcastic _sure_.

In this moment, when Puck and Quinn acted like they didn't have pent-up feelings for each other, as if everything's fine, and the spotlight was being shone towards me, I decided just play along, however reluctantly.

It's a good evening with my friends, I'm texting Brittany, and I'm not going to spoil both just because I refuse to admit I am a goner.

* * *

"_You are the unicorn, Britt."_

She had said that to me yesterday and it still left me feeling giddy in the insides today. I asked her then: _you know unicorns are magical, right_? She shrugged and said, _you kind of are_, as if it is the most obvious thing to declare.

I just smiled. I'm still smiling now.

_Santana Lopez: Are you implying I'm big as a dolphin?_

I snorted because I could totally imagine how scrunchy her face gets when she makes digs like this. Plus, her body is not, in any way, resembling that of a dolphin's. She's really…well, um, _fit_.

I replied: _No, not at all. Dolphins are just gay sharks, S. And I'm sure they love their trainers very much._

Santana and I haven't known each other for a long time, but I think I've watched her close enough to afford personal presumptions such as the scrunchy face. I mean, I like paying attention to her face. After she made the unicorn compliment to me, I was just mostly watching her, and she was watching me. We were just kind of looking at each other. She is _so_ pretty. And her skin always appeared _divine_. I wonder how she manages to look so stunning without trying so hard. Maybe I'll ask her some time.

"Talking About Feelings: Session Seven," Sugar cheers as she throws her body to my bed, face front.

Tina was following after her, two bowls of chips anchored by her arms. "Prepositions: It Marks the Difference."

I momentarily looked away from my phone to shoot her a questioning look. "Am I in English class?"

"You are not, Brittany," Tina answers as she flops down next to Sugar and I. "This is, once again, the borderline discussion between _love _and _in _love.

"You see, Brittany, I am in love with Mike."

"And I love _you_," Sugar supplements in with a cheeky smile. "See the difference?"

"I love you too?" I answered tentatively because I still don't get it.

"Now that's where it gets messy, isn't it? People often mistake 'I love you' as a question rather than a statement," Tina ventures like a friggin' love expert of some sort. I've seen this persona in all of our previous sessions of talking about feelings. "More frequently than not, we expect a ditto from an I-L-Y. The thing is: We don't have a say on that. We really don't.

"Now, I'm going to ask you, Britt: Were you ever really _in love _with Sam?"

I don't like it when Sam gets brought up, but Sugar and Tina keep insisting that I should face him – or the thought of him, at least. I deem their question to be difficult. I chewed on my lip because I was contemplating. While in the process of it, I felt my phone vibrate against my hand. I saw that Tina and Sugar were giving me the time to produce a definite answer to that confusing question, so I went on to shamelessly read Santana's text: _ You are right, Brittany. I am very gay and very shark._

I practically chortled.

"That laugh is not a sarcastic one," Sugar notes. "It's a genuine laugh, Britt. What was so funny with the question? Did you finally realize you're sibs with Sam?"

"No," I said with fit of giggles. "It's…it's Santana."

Tina gave me an inquisitive look. Sugar lifted her hands to her mouth in what I suppose was delighted surprise.

"Santana?" They asked at the same time, in united fake-innocence.

"Yes, the one whom I was with yesterday," I say. Sugar had made it to breakfast yesterday, and Tina was already in Cup-A-Cabana, and all of our paths had crossed. "You guys met, remember?"

"_Barely_," Tina brushes it off. However, Sugar was always happy to boast. "I did! I took pictures with her! I was momentarily a Twitter famous because of our picture together."

"It's too bad Cup-A-Cabana was so packed I had to help Mike," Tina adds with a hint of regret. "What's she like?"

I wanted to tell her how awesome Santana is, but Sugar beat me to it.

"She was _so _pretty!" She gushes. _Like I don't know_, I internally rolled my eyes. "I've always followed her blog, which is both mean and funny, and I actually thought she would be just like that in real life. She wasn't."

"Really now? How did she and Brittany know each other then?"

"Oh," Sugar's enthusiasm falls, "That I forgot to ask. I was so busy building-up my upcoming party, Sugar Shack, because I wanted her there, and, well, I kind of forgot to ask her the important questions."

"Besides the fact she's this hotshot blogger, who is this _Santana_?"

I clapped my hands at once, my phone briefly abandoned. "I'm so glad you asked, Tina! I was waiting for this moment!"

They looked at me curiously, so I went on to explain my excitement.

"Santana is my saving grace," I began. "After running away from my own wedding, I went to a bar to drown away all those ugly feelings I was feeling. Kind of drunk, I met two hooligans – well, not exactly hooligans, but they were very rude, so there's that. Anyway, as these two hooligans cornered me, and as I was losing the will to fight, Santana rescued me."

"How come we knew this just _now_?" Tina insisted, always looking out for me.

"Nobody really asked," I shrugged. "It's over, though. I'm fine," I assured them quickly. I then continued to tell tales of mine and Santana's expedition together. I caught the feeling of wanting to see her again only because of talking about her.

It appeared like Sugar and Tina were really not expecting these details from me. They were both intrigued and fascinated as they listened in to my story. The question of me being in love with Sam was long-forgotten.

"That toothbrush thing was so cute," Sugar muses. "She sounds really nice."

"Yeah, she does – overlooking the part when she attempted to humiliate you about your wedding story _and _make profit out of it."

"You're such a downer, T," Sugar snatches up a handful of chips and feeds it to her mouth. Muffled, she speaks, "I've never seen Britt smile like that in the past weeks, and I'm not taking away that from her just because I don't approve of her prospect admirer. And I do, Britt. I like Santana," she adds.

I was looking at Tina inquisitively. I was wondering where the sudden dismissal came from. I see her tracing unrecognizable patterns at the fabric of her pajamas, refusing eye contact.

"I'm just worried," she mumbles. "You know you're getting better, Britt. I know it, too. But I've seen you when you slapped Sam, when you cried, when you ran. I see things different from your perspective because I'm not you; I'm your friend, Britt. I can't help but to worry. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I'm gradually getting the answer whether you were _in _love with Sam or weren't."

"What?" I breathed with a tinge of increasing irritation. "How does talking about Santana relate to Sam? If you haven't noticed, I'm having a hard time explaining what I truly felt for Sam. It's not easy, okay?"

"Never in our friendship have you ever talked about Sam like you're talking about Santana now."

My heart took pace. I was feeling uneasy. I felt cornered, and not in a rude, we're-just-fishing-for-fun-kind-of-cornered.

"Slow down, you guys," I say cautiously. "Santana is not a '_prospect admirer_.' We're friends, I think, and it's only that. Just because I've met new people does not mean I want to date them immediately. You're both being too much right now."

My only friends were looking at each other and at the walls of my room awkwardly. I know someone between them is going to say something, but my phone rang and kept them quiet.

My eyebrows turned up as I read the name of the caller, but I decided to contain my giddy.

"I'll talk about feelings when I'm ready," I say to both of them and excused myself.

I went out to my terrace, and despite the unexpected confrontation just now, a smile was creeping up to my lips. I felt the wind kiss my face, and slightly disgruntle my hair. It's good I was wearing my PJs and pullover sweater since it was a chilly night.

"Santana," I say, "Hi."

"Brittany, hey," she says in greeting, though she sounded unsure. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, I guess?" I drawled the last word out. "Why'd you call? Is everything okay?"

"Everything's okay, Britt," she tells me and I hear voices in the background, like hollers of amusement. "My friends just dared me to call you. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No, no, you're not. You interrupted just right," I say but didn't really elaborate. Yet again, Santana comes in at the right timing. "Dolphins," I then offered happily.

I hear her chuckling as the hollers in the background fades. "Yeah, as I've said, I'm very gay _and _very shark. However, it concerns me how so high-maintenance they are, and I'm sure you need so many permits from the government, ecological, and animal institutes to lawfully own one."

I pouted. "You always have a way of turning down all of my suggestions, don't you?"

"Hm," I could imagine her contemplating, "if it's any consolation, I dislike your ducks the least."

"What about my cat?"

"I haven't seen it yet."

"_Him_," I promptly corrected her. "You have to meet him!"

There was a two-second pause of heavy deliberation. "I do not resent nor embrace the idea," she finally declares.

I chuckled. "Okay, Santana. I will arrange this momentous meeting as soon as LT is free."

"LT?"

"Lord Tubbington."

"I'm still neutral," she says.

I sighed with a smile. I like how conversations with Santana are so easy-flowing.

"What did I interrupt?" She asks. "I know something was up before I called."

"How so?"

"You sounded so relieved when you answered. I have never heard someone to be that happy to respond to a call, especially one from me."

I turned and saw Tina and Sugar watching me through the glass door separating us. They were watching me, and they looked away when I caught them. I turned away again.

"Well, uh, my friends are actually having a night over here at my house. We're having this thing where we talk about feelings – implicitly and openly."

"Jeez, sounds like a tough job," she comments.

"Yes. No. I mean, before_…_" I was supposed to say before Sam, but I bit my tongue. "_Before_, I was never pained when asked to tell what I feel. It just comes out naturally, and I'm sure that what I say reflects what was in my heart." I sigh. "But now…I'd do anything just to stall talking about feelings. It's exhausting."

"Aw, Britt," she speaks with such warmth that somehow comforts me. I didn't know I needed comforting. "You know you always have a choice. If these discussions of feelings are forced, you know you can always say no. Brittany, you had your life assumed until it was turned upside down. That fact alone is exhausting, and I think I can see why you want to keep to yourself at these times."

"I didn't mean that," I say. "I want to share my thoughts, I do, but, I don't know? – Maybe I want it in my own pace? I know they're looking out for me. I know they want to be aware of what's going on in my head, but heaven knows I need a break. It isn't even like I'm cooperating with Tina and Sugar in the past sessions, too, but they just don't give up on me."

"That's what friends do, B. They don't give up on one another."

"I know."

"So don't give up on them. They're going to worry about you. They're going to put up with you. And so do you. You have to understand that, more than ever, now is the time they have to seek for your comfort, when the fallout had already happened. Not only does it clear their conscience, but also because now is the time you need them the most." When Santana gives away her next words, I could imagine a disapproving frown on her face. "You all are so focused on Sam he's destroying your sisterhood, too."

I was quiet. I was annoyed one reckless person could ruin so many beautiful things.

"Talk to them, Britt," she suggests. "Not all of your feelings are solely directed to Sam. He strained a part of you and the relationships you have with the people around you, one way or another. And these people need to realize you don't only need to mend your self that was associated with Sam; you need to mend all of you."

If I was carrying a shelf of books on my shoulder, I felt like a row was taken out. Hearing Santana talk like this, I felt lighter. She didn't say she understood what I was going through, but she spoke like I'm okay, everything else is. She's so certain I'm starting to believe her, too.

"Okay," I nod as I feel myself agreeing with her. "I'll talk to them."

"Atta girl," she cheers, and I just had to chuckle at her enthusiasm.

"I'm so glad I met you, Santana," I told her in all earnestness.

"I am, too."

"It's also really nice to have you text and call me."

"Friends do that, B."

Yet again, I felt my feelings float. I smiled, "Awesome. Now I could proudly brag how we're friends. I was uncertain. Like earlier, I was talking to Tina and Sugar how we met and I just had to say 'Santana and I are friends, I think.' I mean, on my side I already consider you a friend, but on you – I wasn't sure about that."

"I have the same predicament. At least now we're clear."

"Dolphins."

"Dolphins," she echoes.

And we laughed for no reason.

"Is this our own version of the _okay?-okay_ those kids with cancer do?"

"The Fault In Our Stars," I ventured. "I liked that book. It made me cry – both on paper and film."

"Sure," she says, and I could imagine her looking anywhere but me if we were in person.

I decided to tease her. "It made you sob, didn't it?"

"Whatever. I'm not telling you."

Santana is so cute. She's always achieving this badass leopard vibe around her (which she gets at times), but in fact all I can actually see is a cute puppy pretending to be a lion. This may be an animalistic comparison, but the point is: she's _really_ cute.

"Friends don't keep things from one another?" I persisted.

"We're not yet on that stage," she retorts stiffly.

"Inform me when we are," I giggled.

"Sure, B." I could practically hear her eye-roll.

"So what's with the dare?"

"Oh, um, nothing, Britt. My friends were just being annoying. Forgive them."

"It's okay; I was just curious. You're having a night over, too?"

When Santana explained the situation with her friends, it was then that I realized affection could also be expressed through hateful words. She had said that Quinn is on a sexual drought, and so is Puck so they're both cranky motherfuckers. She informed me it was a nickname. Despite this, the concern she had for them was very evident. She had also said, in a quieter tone, that she hopes they'll end up fine – whether friends or more. In all honesty, this just adds to her cute-puppy-pretending-to-be-a-lion cuteness.

"Now that I have the time to think about it, them asking me to do this dare is more of my benefit than theirs. Me sitting with them, feeling uncomfortable is a thing; but them suffering solitude together is another. It must suck out there."

"Where are you now?"

"In my room."

I remembered how I had slept there, with all the great comforts I needed. I still feel grateful.

"Where are you?"

"Terrace."

And although we're apart, digital means the only avenue for our communication, I still felt connected to Santana in a higher note. In this moment, I did not dare question it, because maybe some things are just left _be_.

"I wish I could see you," she said, more like spilled out. As it was, she is quick to amend. "I mean, we should totally hangout soon."

"I know," is all I said because I do, and I understood.

"Great. In the meantime, you go give Tina and Sugar a talk. I didn't mean to hold you for too long."

"Okay. Thank you, Santana."

"Friends do this, remember? I'd put a winking emoji if we were texting," she adds.

I laugh, "I'd reply with the craughing emoji, then."

"I'll see you soon, Britt."

"I'll see you."


	7. Chapter 7

I woke up with Sugar mashing my face with her hand. This girl dreams so vividly, I swear. I pushed away her hand gently, so as to avoid disrupting her dreams, which I'm assuming includes boys and chocolate fountains. I turn my back to her, expecting to find Tina. That lady could be small, but her hugs are so warm, especially in the mornings. I could use that. Except that I found the space beside me empty. Where is Tina?

After my phone call with Santana, I did just as she suggested. I talked to Tina and Sugar. I told them they are still surely the first people I will come to in case my feelings end to a point of mix-up. I said that they need not to push me to expressing something I'm not yet ready to let out. Sugar said she understood, and Tina said she was sorry. I said I was, too, for snapping at them. And the remaining of the night went naturally fine, almost like Sam never left me and scarred my faith in love. Part of me just wonders whether Tina took what I said too gravely, so she's not with Sugar and I when waking up. She looked like she _really _was sorry.

I sat up to look around my room, just to check if Tina was by the fridge or in the bathroom. There were no lights on, and the only sources of luminescence were my windows and the early morning sun passing from the doors leading to the terrace; she wasn't here. I heard, more than felt, my phone vibrate, so I immediately fumbled for it on the nightstand.

I smiled. It was a text from Santana greeting me good morning with a smiling emoji.

I replied, _good morning, S! Either we woke up in sync or you were watching me._

In response, Santana sent me a picture of her outlaid legs and PJs. It was black. I imagined her being lazy to tap a coherent reply. She may not be a morning person, I thought. Then came her words: _Didn't know you'd be up by 8. Woke up in sync, B._

I appreciated her texts. I sent her the same kind of image; I wanted to brag about my pink, duck-printed PJs. I then informed her I usually wake up earlier, but since Sugar, Tina and I revived our teetering friendship, I slept in a little late.

I placed down my phone back to the nightstand, got out of bed, and suited myself in my loose sweatshirt. This cream-colored sweatshirt once fit me just fine until Sam had to wear it. That guy works out four times a week and his arms are all muscle-y. So when we were being all sorts of silly and he challenged me that he could fit into the sweatshirt, it expanded and became loose. I pinched myself right then because I was thinking about him and the times we had. I pulled the sweatshirt back up and removed myself from it, preventing further associations with my supposedly-groom-also-a-cheater. I don't want to think about him.

What I did next was something that surprised me as well. I pulled the drawer where I kept the stuff Santana let me borrow. I wore her hoodie. Somehow, with her scent enveloping me, I felt better, like I could forget Sam.

I was just about to go to my bathroom to brush my teeth when I heard my door open. Tina walks in with a very weary expression.

"Hey," I say, and hugged her good morning.

"Brittany," she says, and her hug wasn't as tight like usual.

"What's going on?" I asked, scanning her face.

Tina's shoulders were slumped as she walked farther from me and sat on my loveseat at the corner of the room. I felt like she's sending me the message not to come closer, so I didn't. She looked like she needed the distance. I was looking at her reflection at my giant flatscreen TV because she was refusing eye contact.

"Where'd you gone?" I tried again.

"I talked to your mom and dad," she tells me after an exhale. I somehow interpreted it as guilt.

I felt myself getting worried as well but I didn't find anything weird about that. Tina is close to my parents. That's not enough to make her look physically and mentally fatigued. So I urged her, "What for?"

"Sam," she said. Her eyes were now boring into mine, and all I could do was just to stare at her questioningly. "I initiated this feelings-talk, right? Sugar, however immature she may appear, at given instances, truly worries about the big things. When I asked her to team up with me in imploring you to verbalize what you were feeling, all she had in mind was to make you better. I was mostly the same."

"Mostly?"

"I had the same, exact intentions as Sugar, but I had more."

Tina is always so bubbly and sun, so when she speaks so seriously, I know something is serious. It involves Sam, my parents, her, and me. I sat on the edge of the bed, gave Sugar a glance, and turned back my full attention to Tina.

She goes on to speak, "Sam is trying to win you back, Brittany. He's tried so many times, but your dad has kept his intentions blocked. Hasn't it ever crossed your mind that he's going to make attempts of getting you two back again?"

I shook my head no. I hadn't heard from him since Santana and I kicked the life outta him, so I thought he's had enough of me. I mean, when he cheated, I'm sure he had enough of me.

"Well, he is, Britt. When he learned that he can't go past your dad, Sam learned to find other ways. He found me."

I started to look around the room, afraid Sam may come barging in or something.

" Relax, Brittany. My thoughts about him haven't changed. He's still a dick, and will always be. I'm not going to give you up for that." Her face shifts to incredulous, "Besides, do you really think _I _will?"

"No," I say, "no, I was just carried away." I exhaled relieved as I hugged Santana's hoodie closer to my body. "Sorry."

"Now, as much as I care about you, Britt, Sam was, _is_, my friend, too. I swear nothing is more taxing than being a friend of a couple, who ends up _not _being a couple," she notes with an eye-roll. Then, "So we met one time, and he begged me to set you up so he could explain."

"You haven't," I stated.

"Why would I? He doesn't deserve you," she replies with a wave of her hand. "But, again, you two are both my dear friends, and to see you two so devastated without the other devastates me, too. And that is why I encouraged you to talk about what's going on with you. I thought I could find a slip about Sam that will hint me that you want him back and end all of our devastations; luckily, I didn't find that slip. I don't want you back with him." She smiles at me apologetically. "I just want you to know that I'm really sorry if you ever felt like you were pushed to do something while you weren't ready, Britt. I was worrying about you, and it just got too far."

"Why didn't you tell this last night?"

"Oh, you were so distracted by your phone, and Sugar was being distracting, too. I decided that morning would be a great timing to drop a news like this."

Right then, my phone lit up and vibrated. I just had to smile impishly at Tina, and made no move to collect the device.

"Sorry," I mumble coyly.

"It's okay," Tina says with a knowing grin. "But please, don't pick it up, Britt – we're having a moment here. I don't want to see you struggle fighting off a goofy grin with a serious face."

"I do that?"

"Totally," she nods. "While we were watching Titanic last night, Sugar and I were so close to tears, but I saw you were covering your hands to hide a laugh. And then you saw me looking at you so you opted for a poker face."

"No," I tried to insist.

"Yes," she says, raising one side of her mouth higher, as if to say I'm not a good liar. "When we were picturing the Sugar Shack, like where the bowl of punch will be placed, you were grinning like a dork. Sugar saw you and nudged me, so I nudged you. Then, you said, 'What? Yes, three microphones shall be placed on the stage.'"

I felt my cheeks getting hotter. "Santana's just really hilarious."

"So I've heard."

We were smiling, and I was just about to say she's completely the same with Mike, when I remembered,

"What did you talk about with mom and dad again?"

"Oh, that," her smile vanished. "I just told them that Sam keeps bugging me with texts saying he's going to see you soon and he's going to make sure it will be happening. I kind of gave Robert a heads up of some sort."

"Don't you think we should talk?"

Tina's eyes widened. "Who, Sam? Do you want to?"

It was a struggle to admit, but I did. "I miss him."

Tina has tenderness in her eyes and she gives me a tight-lipped smile but doesn't offer anything else.

"I don't want him back, though. I miss him is all."

"It's okay to miss someone whom you've lost, Britt."

"Yeah," I say as I reach for my phone and read Santana's text. _How'd last night go anyway?_

"Aren't you mad, Britt?" Tina prompts cautiously.

"At you? No, I'm not. I guess I should be, at some parts, but I'm not; ultimately, I'm just glad you're always by my side." I smiled genuinely, "Thanks, Tin."

I don't think I have the guts to be mad at anyone at this ungodly hour of the day. Not when my parents practically barricaded part of my life from Sam, not when Sugar and Tina cared so wholly about me, and especially not when Santana sends me a picture of her mug of coffee. It's okay to miss Sam, but I don't need him. He could come back and announce his unwanted presence in my life, and I could face him. I'm okay and I have all that is necessary to me. Right now, all I could do is to appreciate the upside of life rather sulk at the snag of it all.

* * *

One week has passed since I saw Brittany at Cup-A-Cabana. One week has passed and we've been texting for most of the day. It would be inaccurate to say 'nonstop texting' because Brittany and I _do _stop texting, like when I take a shower or when she attends to a customer at their bookshop or when we sleep. It's _not_ nonstop, but we talk as much as it's possible. We FaceTime and do voice calls at some point – when I'm too lazy to text or when she's too sleepy. One time, while in a session of a video call, I left for a second or so to collect my dearest cup of coffee. When I came back, I caught her eyelids surrendering to rest and I was sure it was the cutest thing I have ever seen. I wished right then that we were in person so I could nudge her or something, but we weren't. I watched her until she lost the loose hold to her phone and until the angle of the camera doesn't offer much of her angelic face. I started a blog entry about the innocence and vulnerability sleeping entails, and I finished even before Brittany woke up. I saw her slept once, or twice, and I swear she's just as beautiful. Still like a masterpiece of art.

"_Crap," she had said, whilst fumbling for her forgotten phone. "Santana?"_

"_Hi," I had greeted her, feeling myself smile to a flushed Brittany. "I'm still here."_

"_You are," she had observed. "I'm sorry I fell asleep. Oh, you're wearing glasses."_

"_Not anymore," I'd told her as I removed the said black-rimmed glasses._

"_What were you doing?"_

"_Work," I simply stated. "Go back to sleep, Britt."_

"_You could've ended this call, you know?"_

_I still remember the sheepish smile she had then. She's really, really adorable._

"_I could've, but I couldn't."_

_The response I got from that was an intense and flustered look all at once._

"_Sleep, Brittany," I had told her lightly. "It's good for the rest-deprived."_

_She nodded. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."_

"_You didn't; I told you I worked." And if I was being frank, watching her sleep is not wasted time at the very least. "Good night, Brittany."_

_She was chewing on her lip as if she wanted to say something really important and packed. I was just waiting._

"_Dolphins," she finally declared. She seemed pretty proud of herself after saying it._

_I raised a brow in recognition. "Good night, Brittany," I had told her again, more firmly. I didn't want to fall into that. I remember that time when I thought this was our version of the okay?-okay._

"_No," she whined, prolonging the o. She was also pouting. "Santana."_

"_What?" I didn't know pouts had power over me – or at least Brittany's._

"_Say it," she pleaded. "I won't sleep until you say it back. I can't go back to sleep until I hear that word from you."_

_I just had a funny expression on my face, hoping it would conceal how I was admiring hers._

"_Dolphins," she tried once more._

_I shook my head at her silliness. "Dolphins," I echoed._

_And thank God I did, because she smiled so prettily after hearing it. I was the one who caused that smile. Me. (And, okay, the dolphins, too – but still.) I had a weird feeling overcome me that I wanted to make her smile like that as much as I can._

"_Good night, 'Tana," she yawned._

"_Sleep tight, Britt."_

In the course of our texts, voice and video calls, I got to learn little details about Brittany. One week has passed and I still can't get enough of our _almost _nonstop communication, of her. One week it was, and I'm finally seeing her again! I have never been so eager to see someone as I am now.

But that's after I talk to Yvette. Yup, my fierce, pierced, pink-haired, stunning-bodied ex.

I did promise I was going to sort things out with them. The visits to my apartment lessened, though didn't completely stop. I guess the genuine promise I had made about talking to them assured their sentiments. I can't talk to them all at once, of course. Each one of us has a history with the other, and for me to utterly dedicate my attention to our past, I thought that needed space and individuality.

Brittany didn't know about this; I was just going to tell her later when we meet. No, I'm _not_ excited, you doofus.

"Santana!" Yvette says happily when she spotted me. I asked her to meet me in a small café just down the block. She stood up from where she's sat, and opened her arms for a hug. She even had her face angled like I'd kiss her.

I leaned into the hug, a _friendly_ one, and patted her cheek with the back of my hand. "Not so easy," I told her with a laugh as I sat down.

"I actually thought you'd stood me up," she says, but she has a playful grin on her face. Yvette seems to be lighter. Not just in the physical aspect, but also in her spirits. She had a light brown coat on, and I saw a black crop top underneath, showing off her abs. Her legs, too, were perfectly lined by her leather pants.

"You look nice," I commented then.

"Nice? I thought I heard hot," she smirks. I smiled along with her.

Her pixie cut hair has grown a little, and I can see some roots of her black hair joining the pink ones. She didn't wear her lip-piercing, but her ears were on full show.

"Still feisty, Yvette, but somehow a little tamed," I said lightly.

"You're one to talk," she scoffs. "Like you're not tamed by whomever it is you're constantly texting. Sometimes you'd open your door for us all googly-eyed, and, of course, you're clutching to your phone."

I ignored that. I challenged her instead, "So you're admitting you're _really _tamed."

"Maybe," she shrugs, and takes a sip of her drink. "Aren't you ordering?"

"No. No, I'm fine. Thanks."

"So," she begins, "We're not awkward."

"We're not," I grinned. "You haven't been bugging me as much."

"That's because I'm not trying to win you back anymore."

"Thank you, Jesus," I exclaimed good-humoredly.

"No, really, Santana. I'm only there at your doorstep whenever Victoria is."

I felt myself being shocked. Victoria is one of my exes. "You're hooking up?"

"I want to, but we're not. God knows I want to, but, you know, I'm doing it right."

"Oh?"

"In the time the three of us – Vic, Ash and I – were crazily chasing you, haven't you thought that maybe we'd be bonded? I mean, Santana, we spent a lot of hours at your door, waiting to be showered by your divine attention. And often times you don't, so we're left with ourselves."

"What, you built a support group of some sort?"

She lifted one side of her shoulder, "Meh, kinda. At first we were mad at each other because we're like competitors, right? And then that just got too old, so we talked. It was mostly to entertain ourselves while we were waiting for you."

"Really, now?"

"Yeah, and then I just kind of fell for Vic…and stuff."

"What about Ashton?"

"Oh, that girl is quiet as a wall. She only speaks when we talk about you."

"You talk about _me_?"

"What do you expect? You're our commonality." She had her face as if to say I was dumb for asking that. "There's the good and there's the bad to talk about. We do both."

I licked my lips, "Do I want to know?"

"The good is the sex and the bad is your mood."

I laughed.

"No, seriously, Lopez, Vic told us you made her come four times. In one night. Why hadn't we done that before?"

I immediately grimaced. "Can we please not mention stuff like that?"

Yvette was dubious. "Why not? We're practically fuck buddies before all this."

"I'm just…uncomfortable."

"Oh," I heard her say.

And then we were silent.

I don't know which makes me uncomfortable the most: a) realizing my exes talking about our past experiences, including sexual ones. How do I know they didn't make it so detailed? I felt like I was a sexual object of some sort. Yeah, I'm all for sex and whatnot, but that doesn't mean I gave them the consent to _openly _discuss our lady macks; or b) two of my exes are apparently having a budding relationship, rooting from their time together wanting to win me back. It's not like I'm against it or something – I just feel odd.

I speak again, "If you didn't want me back, what else are we here for, then?"

Yvette smiles, "I'd like to thank you for bringing Vic and I closer. If not for you, I would have never met her sooner."

I have my face scrunched in a '_what the fuck' _expression.

"Yeah, I thought I could annoy you," she chuckles. "But no, I'd just like to talk to you. Is that bad? If I remember correctly, we were fuck buddies _and _friends."

"Yes, we were," I say, getting a flash of the times Yvette and I had. We'd always go together to a gay bar, with the goal of getting laid, and because we're so full of ourselves – we wouldn't find anyone that lives up to our standards, and so we always end up fucking each other. It's funny. Those were good times. "You can answer, you can't, but I'd appreciate it if you do - Why did you have to, you know, like me like_ that_?"

"You know, the drama of calling someone your own," she offers. "It crept up to me like a freaking disease. I guess I had enough of the get-drunk-fuck-anyone kind of lifestyle; I wanted to be loved. And I think the only way to get that is _to love_."

My discomfort in this conversation reached a new high. Why the hell is _love_ included? It must have transcended to my face, because Yvette was quick to explain.

"No, Santana, I didn't love you like that – not romantically. Wait, I don't think I have loved you in a friendly way, either," she shrugs. "I care about you, though. I don't really know how to define the parameters of love and the gist of it all. I think love is bullshit, but is very nice if you found a real one. Or so they say.

"But the point here is – I wanted to be loved, and _you _were there. You're funny, a good kisser, and you laugh at my rants, so somehow I felt connected to you. I didn't love you, Santana, but I saw you as a person I could stress with the love I want to share."

Now I felt myself be more at ease.

"I still see you as my friend, Santana Lopez. And although I don't want you back anymore, I still wanted to meet and talk because I wanted to ask if you still see me as your friend, too."

I smiled warmly. "You're being gross right now."

She giggled and I actually thought her cheeks colored. She looks away and sips again from her drink.

"Yeah, Yvette, I think we could still be friends," I finally said. "I mean, we're both hot, and niche-picking happens, right?"

She laughs. I did, too. Then,

"Just to be clear – friends, yes; fuck buddies, no," I say seriously.

"I will solemnly abide to that." She raises her right hand for emphasis.

I thought this was a good note to end things with her and I. Actually, it's not really _end _per se, but more like _close_. I did agree we could be friends, but she's just done with wanting in winning me back. We closed that chapter in our book.

"Thanks?" I offered. "It feels like appropriate to say it."

"Yeah. Thanks."

I felt her earnestness so I say, "Great."

Not everything in my life is put together, but I'm glad I have this part of it placed where I think it should be. The air smells like brewed coffee, I amended things with my ex, I'm seeing Brittany later, and all is chill.

She smirks, "Friends, huh?"

"Just casual," I added, flinging my hands to the air.

"Let's end this tomfoolery and let me walk you back."

"Cool, but I have somewhere else to be."

"Oh, are you talking to Victoria next?"

"What? No, I can't do the three of you in a day."

"I'm sure you can," she winks. I just had to throw pieces of balled tissue paper at her way for that.

"Talk to her, alright?" She asks me with her hand shielding her face, countering my powerful throws. "Won't go out on a date with me, 'cause she thinks she still wants ya. Shit, Santana, stop throwing stuff. You're making a mess."

"'Kay," I say with one last throw and mischievous smirk. "Soon I will."

"Now go away," she shoos me jokingly.

I stood up, flattened my black dress and suited myself in the leather jacket I've been holding. I ran a hand through my dark locks, anxiety crawling up to me. Yvette is just watching me. I meant to walk away coolly, because, really, I was just cool all the while. Now I'm not.

"Are you okay?" She asks, while playing with the straw of her drink. "Seriously, do you want me to drive you to where you're supposed to be?"

"Do I look okay?" I blurted out. "I mean physically. Do I look okay?"

"What? Now I'm sure something's up. When did you ever question your physical prowess?"

I shrug with a crease on my forehead.

"Sit," she motions for the space I just occupied. I complied and sat once more. "Friends talk to each other, Santana. C'mon, spill it."

There was a funny feeling in my stomach, and it seems to intensify as seeing Brittany approaches me.

"Have you…have you ever talked to someone for a great amount of time and haven't found anything to dislike about them at all?"

"I haven't. I like Vic, sure, but I know she knows I don't like how stiff she is sometimes. I think there's always a counterpart to the good. Not everything can always be likeable."

I sighed confused.

"But," she says, "Sometimes we learn to admire those unlikeable antics of a person because we like them all too damn much. Vic being too stiff is a part of her self, I think, so I try to see her as _her_."

"It scares me," I say, deciding to unravel parts of me I usually don't let out. "To find all the good and bright in one person when, for all my life, I've always seen the bad in the world."

"Maybe that's love," Yvette supplements in off-mindedly. "It alleviates, or for your case – _shatters_ – the view of the world as you see it. Love makes you think you've been full of shit all along."

"I don't think that's what love supposed to do to a person," I tell her. "And, _Dios Mio, _Yvette, why are we even talking about love? All I asked was if I looked okay."

"You're smokin' hot," she answers me surely.

"Thanks," I gave her a wink. At least I'm still able to do that now. "I'm just fucking anxious, and I don't even know why. It's not like I haven't seen her before, you know? I have."

"You're just excited, Santana. And you're not used to all this. You'll be fine."

I nodded, more to myself. "I'll be fine. I'll be perfectly fine."

Yvette smiles at me mockingly, but I know it also equates to encouragement. I said thanks once more and that I'll see her soon. She says okay and shoos me again.

* * *

I'm in my car when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Brittany. It bears a screen capture of my face in one of our FaceTime sessions and I'm sure I look pretty dumb. She even had emoji eyes as a caption to it.

I called her and she was quick to answer. She had no time for greetings.

"Santana, where are you?"

I chuckled, "I'm on my way."

"Okay. Hang up. Drive safely. Just drive and be here."

And I was so happy because I'm not the only one who's excited. So to Brittany's famous bookshop I go.


End file.
